


Things that can be used against you

by Mewenn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, BAMF Stiles, Developing Relationship, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Agent McCall, POV Chris Argent, POV Derek Hale, POV Sheriff Stilinski, POV Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mewenn/pseuds/Mewenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You gotta keep perspective on certain things.</p><p>So Stiles will stay in that circle and just lay back and think of Beacon Hills. Or something.</p><p>or</p><p>Five times Stiles and Derek have sex because magic says it is so and the one time it wasn't for a spell. (and the three interludes where the adults wonders about what the hell their kids are doing and move the plot forward)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flood

**Author's Note:**

> Not really betaed, so if you feel like helping me shape up this story into something better, drop me a note with a way to contact you and I most definitely will.
> 
> This note contains spoilers for season 3, but the spoilerless and short version is: I'm ignoring season 3.
> 
> Long version with spoilers:  
> I'm ignoring season 3 because while it is awesome it isn't what I'm going for here. So concider that the Alpha pack turned into villains of the week and Boyd and Erica were saved. There won't be any Cora. I'm also going to ignore the girlfriend from highschool and keep the fanon where Kate seduced Derek while he was still in school. No second batshit crazy girlfriend either... well not as she is now at least.

The weather is miserable. The ground on the way to the Hale house was soaked, the water running over saturated earth to fill every dip of terrain with brownish puddles. It looks like the equatorial mangrove out there.

Inside, there is a brief smell of sulphur and a small puff of smoke as Stiles lights a match. The flickering light and its reflection in the glass catches his eye for a second and holds it until the fire starts licking at his fingers. Stiles lights the candle and watches the match turn black and the flame die slowly. There's something about fire, about the brightness and the warmth of it, that Stiles feels bad for losing.

The decision is taken away from him when the door opens and a gust of air blows off the small flame.

Derek steps fully into the room. Boy, does he not look happy. Not that he ever does, but he's got his game face on, the one that he wears to go fight off hunters and kanimas. Stiles feels his lips stretch into a strained smile. It's something of a reflex he's acquired lately, along with the sarcasm. Things don't get less scary, but at least Stiles can say he was facing them grinning without his heart skipping a beat.

Stiles pretends he isn't watching Derek as he looks around and takes in the candles, the carpet that covers the floor, the pillows heaped on it, the excuse of a fire Stiles built in the stone chimney.

That fire doesn't procure much warmth. Its life is hanging on by a breath, that of every gust of wind coming from the hidden hole in the chimney. The one that blends in with the soot and scorch marks and all the shadows the Hale house seems to grow inside its walls. Stiles is no boy scout, but he is damn proud that he managed to make fire, even this fire, out of the wet wood that was all he could find in the forest when he arrived; yet another reminder of the rain and the reason for his and Derek's presence.

The burnt out remains of the Hale house are not the best place for what they are going to do, but Stiles is going to make it as not-horrible as he can, even if, right now, Derek is looking at a pillow like he wants to murder it. Unless his grief is with the Batman pillow cover. Of course Derek would be a Marvel guy.

Stiles goes back to the wobbly table where he set the book earlier. Its old cover smells overpoweringly of leather herbs and incense; it's so strong it conceals the stench of dust, mould and smoke of the house. Speaking of which, Stiles opens the box that holds a scented candle. He found it in a drawer. It possibly belonged to his mum, so long ago he doesn't know if it will still smell of anything at all. He's almost surprised when a waft of cinnamon tickles his nostrils. It's faint, but there.

Stiles checks the candles and the diagrams he wrote on the ground against those in the books and finds them to be acceptable. He is never going to be an artist. He's got the imagination, but not the patience, or the coordination. It doesn't matter. Magic isn't about craftsmanship; not the magic Stiles practices.

He brings the scented candle with him to the centre of the room and deposits it inside the circle created by his marks. Derek seems to be scowling harder now. Though he is the one who is supposed to be the least affected by the cold between them two, he has yet to take off his leather jacket, and he’s currently hugging himself tightly. Stiles, on the other hand, has gone against all his layering habits and is only wearing a t-shirt. His arms are covered in goosebumps and the symbols he drew on himself earlier. They start in his palms and go up his arms under the fabric of the shirt all the way to the centre of his chest and down to his navel and hips. Stiles looks up from the candle just in time to catch Derek checking them.

Stiles will be the first to say that they don't look the slightest bit flatering on him. He drew them with a permanent marker and the black ink combined with the jagged lines of the design he chose makes him look gaunt and paler than usual.

Once the scented candle is lit and placed at the head of the circle, everything is in its place; all that's left for the spell to start is the human touch. This time, when Stiles looks up, Derek is making a point of looking straight at him.

Derek Hale! ladies and gentlemen, the man who won't let no spell scare him away. Though his arms are hanging somewhat stonily at his sides, Stiles can see now the determination that the Alpha first showed when they decided to do this. It is still less determined than Stiles's level of determination about not doing this. How people crumble and give into adversity. But Stiles spent enough time looking for a loophole to get him out of the obligation to practice stupid sex spells for the greater good. It's sleep with Derek and do what he's best at - which is save the day, thank you very much - or watch his hometown disappear under a supernatural flood.

You gotta keep perspective on certain things.

So Stiles will stay in that circle. _Just lay back and think of Beacon Hill,_ he thinks to himself. To Derek he says "Planning on staying over there all night long?"

Derek pauses and looks like he might ask for privacy. Stiles has a retort to that ready on the tip of his tong. But he doesn't have to, because Derek starts undressing in slow movements.

Derek takes off the jacket first and then the black Henley he wears underneath. So far, nothing Stiles hasn't seen before. Just, you know, perfect six pack and a body that there's no way Derek doesn't spend hours of his days working into this shape, because Peter's a werewolf too and he doesn't go around parading underwear model perfection. Just saying.

The first step into unknown territory comes from the way Derek holds himself while he unfastens his belt. It's small, and stupid, but Stiles looks at Derek's slightly hunched over back, at the way he brings his hips forward to work the belt buckle and the way his muscle just bunche under his skin. Truth be told, if this was happening in any other circumstance, Stiles would be envious at best, maybe even a bit turned on at worst. Right now, all he feels is a growing pain in his gut that is one hundred percent stress.

Derek has put his jacket on a chair but he lets the belt fall at his feet. He keeps his eyes down on his hands, as if undoing buttons was the most fascinating thing ever. Stiles suddenly realises that if he watches much longer, he is going to be ogling a naked Derek and that said naked Derek, in turn, will have nothing else to do but watch Stiles performs his own strip tease.

The wrenching sensation this thought provokes isn't pleasant.

"I strongly feel like I should apologize now in case I puke on you later," Stiles hear himself say. Then "aww fuck my life" also comes out before he has the time to slap a hand on his mouth and facepalm with the other.

But the effect isn't entirely negative as when he looks again Derek isn't moving like an automat anymore or looking like he's going to kill his trousers. Said trousers are also hanging loose on his hips and riding very, very low, front completely undone and black boxers showing through the V of the zipper.

Stiles only hesitates one second before he starts undressing. There's a comforter folded under the pillows. When he's naked he can hide under that. He takes off his t-shirt and shucks it out of the circle. Even though it's only a stupidly thin layer of fabric, he really feels its loss. Especially when he looks up and Derek is watching him. The werewolf's trousers are still in the same state, he's barefoot though. Stiles goes for his own shoes thinking that it's a good thing he noticed before his trousers were stuck at his ankles.

He's nervous enough already that he fumbles with his shoelaces and tightens the knots instead of undoing them. The more he wants it to be done so he can get on with the rest of his clothes, the more the cords tangle and tighten until it hurts his finger to try and pinch the lace and undo the lot.

Eventually he defeat the knots. Stiles shucks shoes and socks out of the circle. He's got his hands hovering over the button of his jean when he looks up and sees Derek hasn't moved in the slightest and is still glaring down at him.

It's not because Derek brings the worst in him in terms of bad jokes but Stiles can't help feeling like a bunny rabbit who's about to get eaten.

They both straighten, facing each other. Derek's hands are hanging loose — if by very, very still and open in a nonthreatening manner you can mean loose — and Stiles has his arms crossed over his chest.

None of them look like they are going to do anything. Stiles doesn't know whether popping a joke about this having better chances to work if they're not standing ten feet apart is the way to go. He doesn't really want Derek close enough for what they have to do, and the more they stand here the less he actually wants to do it.

Finally Derek just walks to the circle without a word. The unrelaxed way he hold his arms at his sides becomes even more obvious when the rest of his body is moving. Stils is so calling him Rob the Robot later.

Before Derek can cross the circle, Stiles remembers that there's something he still has to do. "Wait, we need a picture!"

His bag is out of the circle. On the way out of the circle, it's like the air thickens and become... not solid, but there's still a resistance there. Much like he imagines walking through jelly must feel like. He doesn't feel slowed down but that last step is the hardest he's ever had to take –and Stiles has walked willingly toward enraged wolves, deranged hunters, a kanima, several creatures and... yeah, you get the gist.

There's a shock of static electricity when he steps out of the circle which he can hear crackling even from the other side of the room. Derek jumps and growl at the circle, so obviously it's not just Stiles's imagination. Seems like the spell has already started even if they haven't done anything yet. Stiles hopes he didn't break something by leaving the circle. With the way his luck goes, he's just brought on them the ire of all magical forces and all this will end very badly.

He better stop thinking about it now before he gives the higher forces ideas.

The Polaroid is rolled into a t-shirt - for extra-padding and because Stiles brought a change of clothes for the morning. "Here," Stiles says, extending the camera toward Derek. "can you take a pictures of the magic scribbles? I had to alter them and I want to keep track of the changes for future reference."

The camera is something Scott's dad left behind. Scott offered it to him without any explanation whatsoever and Stiles never asked. He also never used it before now, but he didn't trust the magic not to mess with his phone or any electronic camera. Well, the ginormous polaroid is also electronic but at least it will take and develop the photo Stiles wants to take inside the circle. If Derek takes the damn thing. Right now he looks at Stiles with an unreadable expression that doesn't bode well.

"I don't know what to be more worried about," Derek finally says with a low and matter of fact voice. One that tells Stiles that he is so stupid he deserve to have his throat torn out (by teeth). "That you changed the spell in any way or that you just implied there will be another time." Derek is a bit growly too. Is the big bad wolf nervous after all?

It's because Stiles knows Derek that he allows a little fear to seep in. Fear is a normal and healthy reaction when dealing with Alpha werewolves. The stupid thing to do is relaxing and treating him like a friend - by that logic, having sex with the guy should be the suicidal thing to do. Since Stiles isn't stupid, he'll keep treating Derek with a healthy amount of distrust

"Can you take the picture or not?" Stiles insists when Derek doesn't move. The thing is, while it's healthy to be scared of Derek, it doesn't mean Stiles should let him frighten him into submission. Especially on important matters.

Derek takes the camera and fiddles with the buttons at the back. Stiles hopes he doesn’t touch anything he doesn’t know how to undo, because the extend of Stiles’s knowledge with that thing is flash on and flash off. While Derek raises the camera to his eyes, he spreads his arms like he’s doing a starfish impression. Derek takes the photo without a word. He waits for the slip of photo paper to come out and wave it until the picture finally shows a tiny Stiles with writing all over his pasty chest and his bony arms.

Derek looks at it and immediately asks "Will you be able to make the marks out?" with a disbelieving look in Stiles's direction.

Stiles makes grabby hands at Derek and peers down to get a close look at the picture. He can recognize the signs. Not very well, but he just needs the general idea.

Craftsmanship: not a magic must have.

But now that the picture's taken, nothing keeps them from going on with the program. Stiles is painfully aware of that.

From the way he has gone tense all over again, so does Derek.

"Okay," Stiles says to no one. Scott thinks Stiles talks to himself because it makes him feel better. Truth is: Stiles doesn't like the sound of his voice more than the next Joe, but nowadays Stiles never knows who's looking or listening or scrying in his direction and he does look less scared when he talks. "I'm going to put that thing back." Okay, maybe doing a running commentary of his actions isn't going to fool Derek. But Derek knows Stiles.

Stiles keeps talking and is commenting on "that weird jelly feeling, are you sure you don't feel anything Derek?" when they both stop face to face in the middle of the circle. Then the words just die on Stiles's lips.

Derek is looking down at where he's playing with the belt-loop of his jeans. The fiddling turns into a small jerks and suddenly Derek takes a deep breath and starts pulling his pants down.

Stiles can't look away.

He follows the hand as it goes down and down and realises, when he sees Derek's hipbone, that Derek has his fingers hooked in both his pants and underwear, and both are coming down at the same time. And though Stiles has seen plenty of naked guys in the lockers after practice - he has seen Jackson naked and he and Derek have a similar built - this feels different. Now that he thinks about it, Scott's pretty built too. Stiles is actually the odd man out on the perfect body department. And yeah, perfect fits very well in this case, because Derek definitively has a body of underwear model and he is just as perfect under his jeans as Stiles suspected. The only thing he is missing right now are underwear. Instead, Stiles has a perfect view of his junk. Which is uncut and looks slightly weird but…, yeah, Stiles understand how Derek wouldn't need to feel self-conscious of that.

Derek lets him watch. Stiles doesn't know why because he is fully expecting to be shoved against a wall and growled at something that will render the phrase "take off your clothes" completely unappealing for the rest of Stiles's life. Because he _will_ remember this for the rest of his life. It's his first time, he's bound to compare every following experience to this one. And how it sucks.

Derek's still not moving and it's giving Stiles complexes to be the only one standing there with his pants still on. Plus, they really need to start the spell. They need tonight's moon to be kind of at its peak and that's going to be in an hour and… Stiles really doesn't have any excuse now, does he?

No he doesn't. Which is why he does the same as Derek did a few seconds ago: hooks a hand at the waist of his pants and boxers and pulls everything down in one push. It's lacking Derek's easy confidence and Stiles knows he looks stupid doing it, but he still pushes the pants to his knees and then fall on his ass trying to push them further. Instead of staying there for Derek to oogle once he's done though, he grabs the comforter and spreads it on himself.

Once he's properly covered, he lifts a corner and gestures for Derek to come join him. They still need to be touching at some point.

"Come on then." His voice crack on the "come", but it doesn't matter because his heart has been going a mile a minute for as long as Derek as been in the room and Derek has freaky—awesome—werewolf hearing. Plus Stiles does't think he's doing a very good job of hiding how nervous he feels.

Derek approaches slowly. Once again Stiles's mind fills with pictures of white and fluffy bunny rabbits and the wolf licking its chops and creeping slowly closer.

It's wrong though, isn't it? Derek didn't want this anymore than Stiles did. Well, maybe slightly more because he's not going to lose his virginity to a guy he can barely stand for the sake of a spell. Also, Stiles knows Derek slept with Kate Argent, but nowadays sleeping with a girl doesn't make anyone straight anymore. For all Stiles knows Derek might be bi and not mind having sex with other guys, whereas Stiles is just coming down of twelve years of pining after Lydia and never even had reasons to think about guys and- oh shit! While he was thinking about this Derek has lifted the comforter and settled next to Stiles. At least he's still glaring, so Stiles has that bit of normality to hang on to.

Stiles notices that the fire is about halfway through its log, and soon it's going to be cold on top of awkward, but right now putting another log means getting out from under the cover - and exhibiting his ass all the way to the chimney AND his dick on the return journey. No thanks.

Stiles can see Derek moving in the corner of his eye. It's really creepy to be here with Derek. But he is glad he didn't have to do that with Scott. One, really really icky. Two, they'd have spent the night looking away from one another and doing nothing. Not that Stiles feel much better about the way he screeches like a girl and scrambles away when Derek puts his hand on his side, but at least something is going on. He can appreciate Derek trying to get things going. In a very distant "we're going to laugh about it later, in a hundred years when I can look at you again" manner.

Derek's scowl worsens, which is in no way reassuring, and he emits a low growl.

"Oh my God, don't look at me like that, you almost gave me a heart attack." Stiles is annoyed but he's also very carefully keeping his arms around himself instead of flinging them around like he usually would.

Derek growls harder and scowls harder and this is beyond ridiculous, Stiles thinks. Derek is probably as nervous as he is and doesn't need to see him lose his shit, so Stiles pushes down his growing hysteria. "Okay, sorry. I'm just, I just haven't… like ever." His hands smooths the comforter on his lap again and again and he feels Derek watching him so he just powers on. "I have done research- wait! have you ever done it with a guy?"

Derek shakes his head and looks pained as he does.

Stiles had kind of hoped Derek had. In Stiles's head, things would have been less awkward if Derek knew what he was doing.

"Okay, err… so no. Okay. Do you… oh shit. So there's going to be… I mean, like, girls are more… well not that I would know but…"

"Stiles." Derek's expression has grown more and more sombre with every word and they still haven't started and now Stiles feels like he's never ever going to go through this without having a panic attack.

Stiles takes another deep breath, holds it in while he counts to four then exhales slowly and takes another. "Okay. For the spell to work we need…" the words gets stuck in his throat and it takes another deep breath to choke it out "… penetration. And you need to… to come inside, oh God I never thought words could be painful."

A peek in Derek's direction doesn't produce new levels of glare o'death. Derek just looks very purposefully blank. Stiles doesn't know whether he's trying to not laugh or not shiver in disgust.

"Do you know anything about how it works between guys?" Stiles asks. If there is a chance he doesn't need to go through this conversation then there is no reason to go through that humiliation.

Derek's expression becomes pained. Before Stiles gather the courage to share his own researches with him though, he grimace, raises two finger and says "There's…" and moves his hand up and down jerkily. The gesture is probably supposed to convey what Stiles thinks it's conveying. Maybe. He doesn't want to check so let's say it does.

"I'll do that part," Stiles says so quickly his voice kind of go all chipmuncky. "Actually, I should probably start, like, now." He pulls his jeans toward himself without much conviction - he's got lube in there which Lydia gave him during what is becoming the most terrifying moment of Stiles's entire live. "Maybe you should," _jerk off_ "get ready too… I mean, not…" Stiles imitates Derek's previous gesture feeling more stupid than he has ever felt gesturing at anyone. "But… hu…" He mimics jerking off, "you know."

Derek's face is still facing away and it says Derek doesn't know and he would like for Stiles to stop trying to explain. Please. Derek's mouth snaps "No, I don't." But Derek doesn't look at Stiles to get a chance of knowing and Stiles isn't going to tell Derek he should masturbate. He does wonder why they didn't have that conversation before they were both sitting naked next to each other. He feels hot all over, in a deeply mortified way. There is as much space as they can put between them without leaving the circle — which on hindsight isn't that big — and they have yet to touch at all since they decided they were doing this - which was a month ago. Stiles doubts it is going to get better in five minutes, when Derek has to… oh God there is no good way to say it. When Derek has to stuff his dick up Stiles's ass.

And yeah, Stiles still can't bring himself to tell Dereck he should masturbate so he just gets the tube of lube from his pocket and turns his back to Derek as much as he can while still being covered by the blanket.

Opening that thing makes a noise, and then spreading the lube on his fingers feels like it is making a noise. Even if it didn't, Stiles bets there is a distinctive smell to that shit, one that is telling Derek all he needs to know about what Stiles is doing even though Derek is probably still staring down the wall. Hell, Derek would know even if he wasn't sitting right next to Stiles. And how is Stiles supposed to stick his fingers in his ass and move them around without looking ridiculous? Why didn't he think of doing this before?

Stiles looks down at his sticky fingers, at the comforter pooling in his lap and at Derek who has yet to move. Without much of a choice, he lays down on his side facing away from Derek. He might also huff in frustration.

The lube is cold against his skin and wet. Stiles has to go with both hands because his cock and his balls are in the way. He feels kind of stupid that his cock is completely soft when he's five minutes away from having sex. On the other hand, this has been so far from sexy, or exciting in any way, that he can't really blame his body for the lack of interest. It doesn't get better when he rubs one finger against his hole.

He had thought of trying this before tonight, and almost done it once in the shower before deciding that he had ample time. When time started to run out, he had decided he would ask Derek if he knew how to do this and that was enough to keep the denial going until a few hours ago, when he'd finally admitted that he was scared shitless of this. So scared that he had trouble admitting to himself that he was going to have sex with Derek. Now, all he can do is force that first finger in and cringe at the noise and at the sensation. He doesn't even know if he likes it or not, because _this_ is the most humiliating moment of his entire life. And Derek Hale is listening to it. Maybe watching, which makes Stiles curl even tighter into himself.

Moving the finger inside himself doesn't feel like much, unless he really twists around and then it doesn't feel so good. As soon as he is used to the sensation of one finger, Stiles pushes another in. And "pushes" is the right verb here. The first finger might have gone in smooth, but the second kind of hurt. Also, the noise gets worse.

Stiles turns his head to bury a moan of discomfort in a pillow and pushes harder. He tries spreading his fingers and… yeah, nothing's moving for now. Stiles can't help but think he could do a better job if the angle wasn't so awkward. Though it is short lived, the image of someone else's fingers doing this sends an unexpected wave of heat through his lower abdomen.

Stretched enough must be when three fingers fit. That's where Stiles will put the limit of "ready", because he can't keep doing this for much longer. With that in mind, Stiles practice a strange mix of relaxation exercises and forcing his fingers to move that is actually more of a mindfuck — ah, pun! — than linking Coach's economy lessons with the history of religious mutilation ever was. Which is such a wrong thought to have right now.

The third finger burns on the way in and Stiles is so done with that shit. He moves his hand up and down three times for good measure and then takes it away and uncurls from his position. It's been five minutes top — laws of relativity dictate that extra suckiness of moment plus ADHD mean it's closer to three really — and his legs feel cramped already. 

When Stiles turns his head to look over his shoulder, he comes face to face with Derek, who isn't sitting anymore and is watching him. Also, from the angle of his arm and the way his shoulder moves, Derek read Stiles's mind earlier and is taking care his end of things. From Derek's expression, it's not going too well.

"Now is really not the time for performance problems." Stiles says, because someone has to say something, so why not?

Derek lets out a frustrated huff and suddenly Stiles can hear the wet sound of a hand moving on a dick. Derek Hale is jerking off. Not that he didn't know before but… Derek Alpha Werewolf Hale is jerking off. There are not enough braincells in the world to get around that. Especially when Stiles remember the size of Derek's hands and Derek's cock and boy but Derek's got wide shoulders and strong legs. Smooth skin too. All of Stiles's blood must have left his brain to gather in his cheeks right now because thinking of this, all that skin and how soft it will feel against Stiles, sends another pleasurable pulse through him.

But there isn't much touching going on once Derek shuffles closer and straddles his hips: Derek's hands on Stiles's hips, Derek's knee parting his legs, and then Derek's legs against the inside of his thighs. The last one feels way too intimate to be something Stiles is sharing with Derek. Too intimate to be something Stiles could share with anyone, because, for all that Derek slams Stiles into things, and Scott like to hang from his shoulders like he mixed up his were-animal for a monkey, no one has ever touched Stiles under the belt. And he’s never been delusional enough to imagine sharing tender lovemaking with Lydia either.

Back to the situation where Derek is kneeling above Stiles, who is looking up at him because if he looks down he can see all down Derek's body up to his dick — Derek's not entirely hard, but already the sight alone hurts. And now there are hands on his legs pushing them aside and then hands on his hips puling him closer and then a hand on his ass lifting him up.

Of course, Stiles would remember the internet said on your knees was easier the first time as Derek gets his dick in hand. Stiles's brain has trouble keeping track of this information as said hand brushes against the soft skin of his sack. It doesn't tickle exactly, but it sends a shiver down his spine, a nice shiver. Completely at odds with what happens next. 

The pressure is similar to his fingers for about two seconds, then Stiles wishes he hadn't agreed to anything.

His first reflex is to scoot away, and he does. Tries to. Because Derek’s first reflex is to hold him close, and Derek is stronger.

Groans of pain and Stiles’s fingers digging into Derek’s arm and chest don't free him either, though Derek isn’t moving anymore, which is a start but not nearly enough.

Stiles is panting, short pained breaths that sound a lot like whines on their way out and don’t bring in enough oxygen. It’s ridiculous but he’s afraid he’ll faint. He’s also afraid Derek will start moving again. At the same time, Stiles is the first surprised to find he’s angry. He didn’t think this through and now he’s paying for his lack of foresight.

Derek moves again and the pain spikes then recesses as the head of Derek’s cock pops inside him in the weirdest sensation he's ever experienced. Stiles started repeating a litany of “no, stop, no” as soon as Derek moved, but all Derek intends apparently, is to reposition his knees between Stiles's legs. Once that's done, he stops moving. Stiles looks up and glares. Derek, looking in pain also, glares right back. Stiles wants to tell him that he has no reason to complain but Derek beats him to it.

"We're not doing this."

"What? No way!" Stiles feels Derek start to pull out so he hooks his legs around Derek and pulls him forward, kinda forgetting that Derek's dick is still stuck in his ass.

Derek freezes at the noise of pain Stiles lets out.

And though he is wheezing a little, Stiles pushes the words out before Derek can start saying nonsense again. "We said we'd do this. We've already waited for too long, and Lydia said it had to be tonight or the stars won't be right for another month or maybe it was the moon and we're basically the only two people who can do this! Plus I won't survive having to do this all over again. I'll just explode if we have to come back some other day and start from the beginning. Stay." All the effect his babbling has on Derek is to annoy him further, so in a bout of madness brought on by despair Stiles continues, "Please, Derek, I'll do whatever you want." When that doesn't work either, he finally lets the anger peek through. "I can't believe you're that much of an asshole about it, all you have to do is come, you're not even the one who's going to walk funny for a week or risk internal bleeding from stupidly big junk, why can't you just move and get it done? Jesus!"

"You try getting there while the person you're fucking looks like you're torturing them," Derek growls suddenly.

There is no other answer to that than to gape like a fish. "Well that's a good point. I hadn't thought of that," Stiles has to admit.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Obviously."

Stiles forces his thoughts — having a dick up his ass is actually worse than his ADHD for his thought processing — to add this to the complex equation that having sex with Derek is turning into.

"Okay, I think, maybe if I'm face down…" he can't bring himself to add anything and flushes instead. But Derek is a big boy who can comprehend the human language when the fancy takes him. So Derek pries away Stiles's legs, gently this time, then he pushes out of Stiles much more slowly than he had pushed in. It feels weird when there's nothing to keep Stiles open. Stiles's muscles keep twitching and it takes him a minute to get used to that feeling.

Derek puts a hand on Stiles's side and gives an impatient push. Since Derek isn't just rolling him around though, he guesses he can be thankful about that. Stiles rolls on his belly, snatches a cushion and hides his face in it. Then he tenses in apprehension as he waits for Derek to push back inside.

But the pain doesn't come back. It sounds like Derek is messing with the lube. Stiles silently curses him for making him wait. 

When Derek position himself at Stiles's back with a hand on Stiles's ass, Stiles's muscle go all tense again. But it still isn't Derek's cock at his entrance. Instead, Stiles feels cool lube, and then just a slight pressure as something that is definitively not Derek's cock slips inside his hole.

Stiles groan, not in pain but in surprise, and immediately bears down on the intrusion. It's less awkward than his own fingers. The angle is easier, Derek's fingers are thicker than his own but after the pain of before it's almost a welcome change.

Also, Derek pushes deeper than Stiles could and it's far enough to reach Stiles's prostate, though the first time Derke's fingers bumps into it Stiles doesn't know wether the sensation sent to his brain is pleasure or just pain so sharp it feels like pleasure. Whatever it is has him hoof all the air from his lungs in a guttural "Ha" sound that wouldn't be out of place in a porn movie. Either Derek thinks so too, or he has another way to tell how Stiles's body feels, because his next ten strokes are aimed for that spot. It must be pleasure as Stiles's dick finally takes notice and hardens against Stiles's belly.

The sensation is different from when Stiles masturbates. Each stroke against his prostate is a sharp burst of pleasure instead of the usual build up, and it makes him feel like he's going to come on each thrust, when he knows for a fact that that's not happening yet. And then there's the feeling of another hand, of Derek's hand, in him. Which shouldn't feel more intimate than having Derek's cock inside him. Only, while he was fucking Stiles, Derek was careful to keep most of his body away. Now he's actively making Stiles feel good. Even if there is even less touching, it feels kinder. Stiles doesn't feel as used. He still feels self conscious though.

"Dude," Stiles breaths after the tenth stroke. He needs Derek to stop before Stiles does something humiliating like come for real.

"What is it this time?" Derek says. Stiles has no doubt that he is scowling and that, if looks could kill, Stiles would be very, very dead right now.

"You need to… this is supposed to be for… stretching. Nhn. You need to actually move your- aah, fingers in a way that will, you know, stretch."

Stiles is expecting, at the least, a slap on the head for that.

Derek barely pauses and, when he starts again, he is scissoring his fingers instead of just pushing in and out.

After a while, Stiles feels a third finger pushing at his entrance, but it is too soon and he lets Derek know with a pitiful moan that was supposed to be words before it comes out all garbled. Derek relents, for a while. From there on it's a little routine of Derek trying to move things along and Stiles letting him know without words when he doesn't quite feel ready for them. Sometimes, the noises aren't from pain, but he's just human and this shit starts to feel really good when he gets used to the sensation. Especially when Derek starts unconsciously rubbing up and down Stiles's sides with the hand that isn't busy. It's warm and soft and kind, even though Derek probably doesn't know he's doing it. That, coupled with all the other sensations coursing through Stiles's body, allows him to relax somewhat. It becomes even better then.

Derek ends up spending at least triple the time Stiles spent on himself stretching him before he withdraws his hand. Stiles has somehow managed to get fully hard while it happened.

There's more noises of lube and Stiles looks back without thinking, just in time to watch Derek pour more lube on his cock. After that he can't get his eyes away from the sight of Derek, spreading the lube on his length. Derek too, has had time to get fully hard. It's an impressive sight, if Stiles can say so himself. But that's not what keeps Stiles watching. Derek looks relaxed, hips cocked forward to give himself better access, hand shining with lube as it moves up and down his length. It sends pleasure coursing through Stiles in a hot wave, like Derek's fingers a minute ago.

Lascivious, Stiles thinks, Derek looks lascivious. That's not a word Stiles would have ever thought he'd associate with Derek Hale.

Derek meets his eyes and doesn't even flinch. He gives his cock a few more slow strokes, as if to tell Stiles that he won't let himself get cowed by the situation. Stiles can feel every one of these strokes as if Derek's big hands were on his own dick.

Or it's just him rocking into the cushions…

His mouth is dry when he croaks "So, are we doing this or what?"

Derek tilt his head as if considering. His hand moves for one last stroke and then he moves toward Stiles and kneel over him. "Let's," he says.

Stiles hates him for the easy assurance that he is oozing right now.

Stiles breathes carefully this time, but it still feels like the air is pushed out of him. Derek is slow while he pushes in, but he doesn't stop moving until his hips are flush against Stiles's ass. Then, Stiles hear him exhale, long and deliberate. Stiles follows his example and takes a deep breath that immediately makes him feel calmer.

"Good?" Derek asks.

Stiles doesn't think he imagines how rough it sounds, how constrained. There won't be any stopping in the middle this time, if Stiles is right about that sound.

Stiles takes another breath. "Good."

The feeling of Derek bottoming out takes him by surprise. Not the strech of Derek's body which he can feel against hi back, but the sensation inside him. It still burns, in the way muscles stretched too far do, but the friction feels nice. Not as nice as Derek's fingers, not as unforgivingly pleasurable as when he was pressing against Stiles's prostate, but his brain keeps insisting that there is something soothing and tingly about it. Derek pulls back, until the head of his cock tugs at Stiles's entrance, and then he moves back in, still slow and purposeful.

Stiles's world contracts until it is reduced to that sole sensation. Derek moving inside him. He is distantly aware of the sudden warmth of Derek's abs against his ass and lower back when Derek leans forward for a deeper thrust, of the way Derek's hands feel so big against his sides, of the pants and moans coming out of his own mouth.

Derek is definitively enjoying himself this time. His thrusts grow faster and harder until Stiles's body is rocked forward with each roll of Derek's hips and pulled backward by his grip on Stiles's sides. The slight movement is enough to topple Stiles down on his elbows until he just gives up and rest his whole upper body on the ground. Derek keeps moving, his thrusts becoming more urgent. Some of them manage to recreate that spark of sharp pleasure and Stiles's cock twitches from time to time. It doesn't feel that bad anymore.

Stiles feels lightheaded and it's not just from lack of air. His vision is a bit blurry. It's like the temperature has risen and heat-waves are blocking things. Or vapour. The air is also warm around him and thick. Stiles feel like he is floating over his body. As a matter of fact, Stiles feels straight out buoyant. His body is loose and relaxed in the water that smells like his mum's favourite bath-salts. Through the fog in his mind, Stiles has a thought that this is what serenity must feel like.

He is so relaxed that he doesn't feel like moving to get to the faucet a few feet from him to turn it off. Luckily, all he has to do is extend a leg and push it closed with his foot. Once the bath isn't on the verge of flooding over, Stiles relaxes back in the water and floats. Hours pass.

***

Stiles is jarred awake by an insistent shaking. His first vision upon waking is the scowling face of Derek who is glaring down at him a mere couple inches away. For someone who just got laid he looks positively grumpy.

"Lemme go. It' too early for you to be a sourwolf," says Stiles's mouth without his permission.

Derek's eyebrows frown even more.

Stiles remembers that he has a reason why he's here dealing with Derek's mood. A spell reason - sex reason, spex reason - what was it again? Ah yes. "Did it work?"

As the answer doesn't come fast enough, he sits up to peer through the window. Or, at least, he attempts to sit up. As soon as he starts moving, all his muscles, especially those in his thighs and back, and all the ones in between, size up and cramp until he falls back down whimpering.

"Aow, aow, aow. Not cool."

Derek reacts to that by looking even more constipated. He does finally say something though.

"It's not raining anymore."

"Doesn't mean much" Stiles points out, carefully moving to his side. Now that the pain isn't blinding his senses to everything else, he can feel wetness leaking from his ass. Knowing what it is only makes him wish for a shower harder. Derek has had time to get back into his jeans. Stiles wants to do the same as quickly as he can."Can you help me up please?" he says, shoving his hand at Derek and his pride down a ravine. At least, Derek moves at once to help him.

Stiles wonder how much he can milk this… this guilt? It looks like Derek feels guilty. Maybe Stiles can get a ride out of it. Right now he doesn't want to be sitting any more than he has to. If this were Scott he'd try to get himself carried back to the jeep too, but he's not stooping so low in front of Derek. He isn't above complaining a little to get the guilt going though.

"Dude, I feel like my ass is on fire." He's about to add how he doesn't understand why people would subject themselves to this willingly, but that's kind of become a lie. He's dealing with a werewolf and he doesn't know if they're fine tuned enough to spot half truths.

Anyway, Stiles doesn't have to, the speed with which Derek proposes "I could drive you home" gives him whiplash. Also, a little guilt of his own.

He deserves it though, Stiles reminds himself when Derek's come run down his legs and his ass twinge at every move.

"Before we go, do you want to… ahh, take care of that?" Derek asks.

Stiles follows Derek's line of sight down and down and to his semi hard-on. Now that he thinks about it, he feels relaxed but it's not the kind of relaxed that comes with an orgasm. And there isn't any evidence of come where there would be if Stiles had ejaculated. That said, the answer to Derek's question is definitively no.

"You know what, I'm really not in the mood." Tiredness is catching up with him and he feels ready to drop in his bed. He still wants that shower first, but then he's sleeping for a week straight. "Give me a minute to get dressed and then let's go.

On the way back home, Stiles takes a second to admire the few stars he can pick up in the sky from between the clouds. At least they know the spell worked.

Derek opens his mouth just as they turn in Stiles's driveway, but he shuts it without saying anything. Stiles doesn't really care anyway. He's already planning how he should react when Scott or any of the others asks or hints or starts in on the gay jokes - he really hopes Jackson won't dare since he's friend with Danny, but Stiles has no illusion that Danny is a special case and whatever keeps Jackson's mouth shut won't work on Stiles.

Stiles mumble a distracted "see you" and then proceeds to cuss Derek silently when he has to limp up the stairs to his room.

He'll just pretend tonight never happened. If he pretends hard enough the others will follow. Eventually it won't make any difference at all.


	2. Wyvern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think what you mean is easiest,” Stiles interrupts from where he’s sitting on Deaton’s operating table. 
> 
> Erica left at the first mention of The Book, looking so blasé she couldn’t be anything but upset—though Derek has no idea why. Boyd and Isaac are quiet, but they’re careful not to meet Derek’s eyes. Jackson is also keeping a low profile, though that doesn’t keep him from sniggering from time to time. Lydia doesn’t show even a little restraint.
> 
> “Easiest, best, it’s all petty semantics,” She tells him while flipping a curl—Stiles constantly calls it strawberry blonde, as if ‘redhead’ isn't acceptable enough for Lydia Martin—behind her shoulder. “I think you just don’t want to put out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Leiarenee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leiarenee/pseuds/leiarenee) has joined the boat. Under her guidance this second chapter has gone from poor rafter to a truly magnificent ship. I feel like I should be bowing to her and promise her my firstborn. She was that good a beta.
> 
> Warning for a POV change (hello Derek POV) and additions to the tags, because I finally planned this properly. I don't think that you have anything to fear from this chapter if you read the first one fine though. Keep an eye on the tags, they might still change. I'll warn you guys if anything big comes along. But, really, if you know you're easily squicked by something in this fanon then check the tags (or, you know, if you want to know what will happen or who will be added to further chapters).
> 
> For the people who wait anxiously for following chapters, they are in the work, I promise, but november is approaching peeps and we all know that it means NaNoWriMo. Moreover, I have a deadline for another piece for the end of october. So don't expect anything until december if you don't want to be disappointed.
> 
> On a funnier note, this story is saved on my computer as PWP, but it's getting more ploty with every chapter. Also, it was supposed to be a short-story of exactly one chapter and no more than a thousand words. I obviously have no willpower.

Peter is perched on the roof of a subway car, watching the stairs, _leering_. Derek has to make more of an effort than usual to ignore him as he marches into the tiny half bath—working plumbing is what ultimately makes the train depot more useful than the house. There may not be a shower in there, but it has a hose and the tiled floor is inclined toward a handy floor drain. There’s only cold water though, but today, Derek is glad to have even that. He wants Stiles’ scent off of him; especially if Peter is going to be even creepier than usual and openly stare at him.

The sooner everyone forgets about this night the better.

***

They have exactly one conversation about That Night and it happens after the very next pack meeting. It starts by Stiles going silent, right in the middle of recapping a movie, his heart starts beating double time and changes from his usual exaggeratingly extrovert self into... well, it's still Stiles, just a very serious looking Stiles. He’s bordering on somber as he begins, "Look, if anyone asks us again to…"

Stiles never finishes. His gaze gets lost in the distance, until he just shrugs and starts talking about the movie again; Derek never asks him to elaborate.

After a while, he starts to wonder if that aborted sentence was even about That Night at all.

***

The next couple months pass quickly, it seems the only time his pack gets together is when bodies are found in the woods. Although, the term "pack" is used _loosely_ here; Derek's pack only actually consists of Boyd, Erica and Isaac. Of Scott's pack, Jackson seems to be slowly coming into the fold, no one knows what to make of Lydia and she likes to keep it that way, Scott is a wildcard and Allison... well Allison is an Argent, a hunter.

Stiles however, has been to honing his magical abilities. Over time he’s slowly strayed from the role of ‘Scott’s friend,’ truly becoming his own person—or maybe he was from the beginning and now Scott, without Stiles influence, is the one finally becoming autonomous. It's shifting the dynamic within Scott's pack, making it unbalanced. This shift may well yet land Jackson on Derek's side, so he isn't about to protest.

Stiles is an outlier, even more unpredictable than before, because now he doesn't automatically side with Scott anymore. Pack meetings have become slightly more interesting as a result.

“So we agree then,” Erica summarizes, after three hours of a migraine inducing deliberation, “body: an accident; flesh missing on said body: local wildlife; marks on the body: _shitty_ taste in tattoos. Anything to add?”

Everyone except Stiles shakes their head, “He was clutching a gold coin.” He says it as if even he doesn’t know whether that information is pertinent.

A week later, bodies begin piling up again in the towns surrounding Beacon Hills. Stiles disappears for two days; reappearing with an article titled: “Local Students Find Millions in Spanish Doubloons” and a stack of paper regarding dragons. One of the names within the article matches the name listed on the ‘missing person report’ for the newest body.

It’s hardly a pattern, Derek points out, but Stiles counters that it totally fits a dragon's M.O. according to his ridiculous character study that comes complete with in-depth, multicolored charts. The only valid point amidst all the fantasy rhetoric is that the second and third victims are also mentioned in the article: a coin specialist and a nightwatchman at Beacon Hills Museum; the rest is pure conjecture.

“I guess that’ll mean a lot more dead bodies if anyone who’s crossed paths with those coins ends up on some dragon’s hitlist,” Boyd says with his usual cool.

Derek hasn’t decided yet if he doesn’t give a shit about the dragon's victims or just doesn’t care about this conversation in general. As a matter of fact, Derek still doesn’t know _why_ he should care, period.

“What are the chances that there are dragon hunters?” Isaac asks with a hopeful look in Scott’s direction.

Scott looks to Stiles. Because when in doubt, Scott always looks to Stiles. And he’s more than likely about to say that he’ll ask Allison but Lydia cuts him off. “I can ask Allison,” she says. Although, seeing as she whipped out her phone the moment Isaac spoke, she probably already has.

The Argents are officially retired. So of course Derek gives it about two months until either father or daughter makes a comeback, dragging the other back in the game. Derek’s betting on Allison, but isn’t sure if he should tell the kids to leave her alone—giving her a chance to go back to normal—or if he should go find Chris and tell him what the pack is up to, hoping it might be enough to make him move what’s left of his damn family away.

Eventually Derek realizes that he doesn’t care about the victims, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared if the pack has to face a dragon. Knowing their luck, the beast will forget that it even had a hit list in the first place and it’ll just start attacking everything that moves.

“Anything on how to stop a dragon?” He turns to Stiles, one of Derek’s eyebrows climbs ever so slightly. 

“Technically, it’s a wyvern. It breathes poison instead of fire, see?” Stiles shoves a purple and black print-out at Derek—the kind that fancies itself whimsical but is just a study in bad taste—and points to what appears to be a random line. “Don’t you get it? It fits with the absence of scorch marks and burns anywhere near our victims” he adds, as if Derek’s raised eyebrow meant that _that’s_ what he wanted to know.

“But on the ‘stopping it’ front, all I’ve got is ‘give the gold back;’ which, unless someone’s been withholding their true identity as Kurt Wagner or Kitty Pryde, is going to be a big negatory.” Stiles turns to bro-fist Scott who just stares back motionless. Stiles’ victorious smile melts into a flat line of resignation. “Come on people, Nightcrawler? Shadowcat? Seriously... guys? X-men? Movies, cartoons, comics—pop culture icons for over a decade?”

Derek decides it’s time to go nurse his headache in a dark place. “Okay, if you _do_ find a way to stop that... wyvern. Call me.”

Stiles looks at him incredulously, rolling his eyes and bringing his hand to his head in mock salute, “Sir, yes Sir.”

***

Stiles does call eventually, sounding like he just ate something sour. Derek feels a similar taste fill his mouth when Stiles starts talking about spells and a certain Book; correction, Fucking Book.

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“No. I wanted you to know first,” is what Stiles says, but to Derek’s ears it comes off as, ‘No... but I feel like we should tell everyone.’

“Any new victims?” Derek says the words, but the thing is, he doesn’t care about these people. Although, he would feel guilty if he knew of a way to help and didn’t at least try to use it. That realization both chagrins him—because it means now he has to do something—and reassures him; he’s not a complete sociopath yet, not that Derek would care if he was, but he doesn’t want to end up like Kate. Even if it means learning how to bake cookies and adopt kittens, Derek will do _anything_ to not become another Kate.

On the plus side, it’s not like the spell is asking for his hand or his lung. It’s just sex.

“There was another attack, two wounded this time. Neither of them died, though one is in critical condition.” Derek doesn’t get the best cell reception in the warehouse, but Stiles sounds a little too even for the words being said. “It’s getting closer to Beacon Hills.”

The real question is, does Stiles care? And how could he not? He was raised by sheriff Stilinski. His best friend is Scott Bleeding Heart McCall. His tone may be flat, but of course Stiles cares.

“And this spell requires the same methods—as last time.” Derek does try to make things sound like questions, they just never come out that way.

“Looks like it, unless I’m reading everything wrong. But, really, how many interpretations are there for ‘to pay for his wrongs, your foe will fall asleep, a hundred years long?’ I mean, yeah it's bad poetry, but the meaning is pretty clear. Besides I’ve gone through that thing cover to cover five times and The Book isn’t wrong... at least, it hasn’t been wrong so far. ”

Derek grips the phone tighter, The Book is an annoying piece of shit is what it is. “But we can’t use your spell unless it comes to Beacon Hills, right?” Even he’s surprised it sounds like a question.

“Yes. It only works if the wyvern comes to your territory. Well, the territory of someone participating in the ritual.”

Derek could make a few calls, find out whose territory the wyvern is hunting on right now. He won’t do that to Stiles though.

“I’ll see if Peter’s got anything we can use. Let’s all meet up tonight and see what everyone else came up with first. Eleven.”

“Mhm, yeah sounds good, Deaton’s? Oh and the Argents don’t by the way, have anything helpful I mean. Allison confirmed as much with Lydia this morning.”

Derek hears the door squeak and the smell of freshly turned earth that clings to Peter—ever since his return from the dead—creeps into the room. “Peter’s here, I’ll ask him now. See you tonight.”

Derek can just make out the clicking of computer keys and Stiles humming distractedly before ending the call. As Derek slips his phone back in his pocket, he thinks back to that conversation from three months ago. “ _Look, if anyone asks us again to_ ” is what Stiles said, but… _What was supposed to come next?_

“Was that dear Mr. Stilinski?” Peter asks. Nothing ever seems to affect Peter recently. Derek has tried shouting, looming or altogether ignoring his presence; it seems to only encourage Peter in making even more of an annoyance of himself. Peter smirks, Derek just feels tired of thinking up ways to get answers that aren't sass and/or half answers in return. He decides on titillating Peter’s competitive side, let’s see if that works.

“Stiles is compiling what has been found out about the dragon so far. He wanted to know if you had anything to add to his file.”

Peter keeps his smirk and begins humming to himself. He rubs two fingers against that ridiculous goatee of his, like he purposefully aims to look villainous. “I guess I would have to know what he already has. I wouldn’t want to repeat any information Stiles already possesses.”

“How’s about you just write everything down and I’ll give it to Stiles. He can compare notes alone.”

“Ah, then in that case, I don’t believe that I have anything of interest.”

Peter lets Derek grab him by the front of his shirt and doesn’t even attempt sidestepping his alpha. It says a lot about Peter that even when he allows his nephew to manhandle him and throw him around, Derek doesn’t feel any more in control.

“Do you have something,” Derek growls within two inches of Peter’s face, “Or not?” It has no effect. At least Isaac, Boyd and Erica still cower when Derek starts losing control; though that novelty is beginning to wear off too. Although, the growling does make him feel marginally better.

When Peter says no by shaking his head, Derek growls a bit more before letting him go. “Get out of my sight, Peter.” he orders. Peter does as he’s told, but Derek still feels pissed.

***

Scott McCall may be a bleeding heart, but he can also be an insensible jerk sometimes. Derek has a remedy ready for that, in the form of bashing Scott’s head against a wall until reason finds its way inside that thick skull of his; but no one ever listen to Derek. It would be a waste of perfectly good wall anyway.

“What?” as if everyone is just overreacting; Derek’s eyes are closed but Scott’s voice is only three feet to his left, the wall still sounds like a good option. “It worked before, right? The Book is legit and it’s really our best option.”

“I think what you mean is easiest,” Stiles interrupts from where he’s sitting on Deaton’s operating table. 

Erica left at the first mention of The Book, looking so blasé she couldn’t be anything but upset—though Derek has no idea why. Boyd and Isaac are quiet, but they’re careful not to meet Derek’s eyes. Jackson is also keeping a low profile, though that doesn’t keep him from sniggering from time to time. Lydia doesn’t show even a little restraint.

“Easiest, best, it’s all petty semantics,” She tells him while flipping a curl—Stiles constantly calls it strawberry blonde, as if ‘redhead’ isn't acceptable enough for Lydia Martin—behind her shoulder. “I think you just don’t want to put out.”

It’s a low blow in Derek’s opinion; since Stiles brought up the spell himself, Lydia’s clever enough to realize that means he intends to use it. If Scott hadn’t started insisting it was the _only_ solution, they wouldn’t even be having this conversation.

“It’s not just about putting out, Lydia,” he says, brow wrinkling in frustration. “It’s also about playing with powerful magic that we don’t even fully understand; magic that could very well potentially backlash on us. And by ‘ _us’_ I mean Derek and I, since the rest of you will safely be somewhere else.”

Is Derek the only one who noticed that Stiles has hyped down a lot in the last year? The relaxed demeanor does wonders for his persuasions skills. Too bad sensible arguments don’t work on McCall. Stiles knows as much too.

Stiles clenches his jaw, changing tactics, “ _And_ , okay, I don’t feel that great about you guys selling my ass to Sourwolf over there, just for the sake of making our lives simpler.” Isaac looks away guiltily at that, Boyd remains impenetrable.

For a second it looks as if Bleeding Heart Scott is about to rejoin the conversation, but Jackson snickers and says “Why, would you prefer it if McCall volunteers for booty duty?”

Derek can see the idea worm its way inside Scott’s tiny bird brain, chasing away all common sense; namely the fact that The Book clearly requires an alpha on this matter. It’s not pretty. Derek glares at Jackson trying his best to convey all the pain that will be inflicted. As soon as Derek discovers a way to hide the body from Lydia that is.

“Come on Stiles, you can’t in all honesty, tell me that you’d rather fight a _wyvern_ than have a piece of tall dark and sexy over there?” Lydia scoffs, not even acknowledging Jackson’s remark.

Lydia’s jab causes Stiles to… well, his shoulders twitch while a shadow falls over his face; Derek can't decide if he looks ashamed or angry. It lasts all of a second before Stiles straightens to start up one of his most volatile gesticulation routines. “You mean tall dark and broody. But if you like him so much, by all means, go ahead.” At Stiles’ words, a shiver runs down Derek’s spine.

As painful as that night with Stiles had been, the prospect of sleeping with Lydia is downright terrifying. Derek has no doubt that if she had to, she would lay down and make—not let, make—Derek fuck her; the idea churns his stomach.

Lydia’s brown eyes turn Derek's way. He’s sure most would describe them as doe like, Derek himself thinks of them as microscope lenses. The kind that can weigh you, measure you and if they focus on you too long, maybe even dissect you. Luckily for Derek, Jackson uses that particular moment to prove once again he’s a possessive jerk. He makes a quip so stupid that it brings the combined attention of Lydia _and_ Stiles down on him. Finally.

While they squabble, Derek wonders whether he should just put an end to this Pack meeting. And not for the first time. They don’t need to come to an agreement, Stiles and Derek had already done that before this gathering.

Derek opts for the cowardly retreat and signals Isaac and Boyd that it's time to head back home. Stiles and Lydia don't need witnesses for what they're about to put Jackson through. As for McCall, Derek hopes Allison gives him the cold shoulder for a very long time.

***

Sometime the next day, the Wyvern attacks a patrol vehicle on the edge of what Derek considers to be his territory. It’s not Sheriff Stilinski’s cruiser—thank God, Stiles had proposed they _kill_ Jackson when he was going after random strangers. Derek sincerely doesn’t want to know what would happen if Stiles’ precious father died.

From the accelerated heartbeat Derek hears through the phone, Stiles is trying very hard not to imagine that idea right now. Stiles sounds deceptively calm when he asks, “So does that road west of town, the one following the interstate, count as a breach of your territory?”

Derek absentmindedly nods because he’s listening to the noises made by Stiles’ jeep, trying to discern where Stiles might be right now. _Probably at the bend right before…_

“Derek? Does it breach your territory, yes or no?”

Then he remembers that Stiles can’t see him through the phone. “It does.”

Stiles’ jeep sounds like it’s gearing up for a speeding ticket; Stiles’ voice is very controlled in comparison, “Can you meet me at your old house in a half hour?” Derek wishes he knew how Stiles really felt right now. 

***

When Derek reaches the house, Stiles is lounging in front of the same window he was on that night. This time, he’s only wearing his jeans and adding another spike to pointy design on his torso with some substance that is closer to oil than ink. He doesn’t react to Derek’s entrance, his focus solely on his work.

Apparently Stiles has upgraded from markers to a paintbrush. Maybe it's a sign Stiles is moving up on the magical ladder—or just a sign that different spells need different mediums.

Stiles eyes bore holes into his torso, but the rest of his body is loose save for the deft hand manipulating the brush. It is steady and precise, almost gracious. Derek doesn’t doubt Stiles’ skills but he knows Stiles simply doesn’t possess that kind of coordination; it has to be the magic.

This time, there’s a different drawing on the ground, but everything else that matters is the same: from the dry smell of chalk permeating the air; to the colorful array of pillows piled in the middle of the room; the folded comforter still smells of the sex and sweat he and Stiles’ shared, under that lies the faint remains of Stiles’ lilac scented detergent. Derek notices the candles are actually a little different too, but the cinnamon candle that had his nose itching is back.

Underneath it all, Derek can make out the smell of lube and the bitter aroma of come. Both scents are currently clinging to Stiles.

Stiles would put the last touch to his magic scribbles and look up—blinking like a newborn deer—just to catch Derek frown; who’s struggling to decipher what his nose is tells him.

Which of course, Stiles misinterprets. “I know you’re as thrilled by this as I am,” he says, posture turning defensive, “But maybe, you could hide the disgust?”

Forcing his features into a blank mask doesn’t appease Stiles, at all.

“Forget it. Let’s get this over with.”

Stiles sets his paintbrush down on the windowsill and crosses the room, but briefly pauses to undo his fly and let his jeans fall to his ankles. The way in which he works them off, by stepping on them, is childish; the way his body moves though… lean muscle under skin Derek knows to be soft and warm, is anything but.

Stiles passes by Derek on his way to the circle, the smell of come and lube are more pronounced now. He also can’t help notice Stiles odd gait.

When the reason for that gait dawns on him, Derek feels a sharp burst of warmth pool low in his belly as his brain shamelessly provides illustrations. “You fingered yourself.” It’s not phrased as a question and not something Derek intended to say aloud.

Stiles's heart doubles its cadence and his skin turns beet red. “Thought I’d get that out of the way,” he grumbles, kneeling down and protectively wrapping his arms around himself. Even though Derek sees Stiles’ hands twitch toward the comforter, he doesn’t hide under it this time. “Come on…” he whispers, “It’s cold and I have chemistry homework waiting.”

The fact that Stiles has _homework_ feels a little like the sight of that Batman pillow last time: a bucket of ice water being dumped on his head. Derek knows he’s scowling; he watches Stiles become even more withdrawn, ready to snap, but Stiles is the one who just reminded Derek that he now has sex with a sixteen year old. A fucking kid.

It had already been all he could think about the first time. Even the vice of tight heat that enveloped his cock hadn’t been enough to overpower the sight of Stiles’ pained, _young_ face and the sour smell that wasn't strong enough to be fear but was too strong for just nervosity. Derek had felt like a monster. Feeling that horrified with himself had occurred only one other time in his life: when he realized Kate _Argent_ used him to kill his family.

But thoughts like these won’t help him get hard; and Stiles wants this spell done tonight.

Derek takes a deep breath to force all thoughts of teenagers, monsters and Kate out of his mind. Then he concentrates on at least getting his jacket off. There, see, he’s in control.

The chair is still there, exactly like it was the last time, Derek walks over and lays his jacket on its back. He then proceeds to delicately fold every article of clothing he removes and takes the time to place them all neatly on down. When he turns around, fully undressed, he catches Stiles staring.

There’s genuine admiration in Stiles’ eyes. Derek doesn’t know if it’s the kind of admiration that goes with sexual desire, or just Stiles wishing he looked like Derek. All he knows is that it’s nice to be on the receiving end of that look. When he lived in New York, every woman who gave Derek that look got invited back to the apartment he shared with Laura.

Walking naked is strange. Walking naked toward a naked Stiles is surreal.

There’s a weird tingling in his skin as Derek crosses the magic’s perimeter and it ease the tension a little. The circle’s interior is relaxing. It’s like it exists within a different place than the burnt and crumbling remains of his childhood home. It somehow brings Stiles’ room to mind; one of the rare places Derek can visit lately that doesn't assault his nose: by smelling of rot and rust; or punish his ears: by echoing back every word, every crack and every squeak.

Derek kneels down next to Stiles. That ‘substance’ he painted with reeks of herbs—sage, bay leaf and something more exotic—and it’s so powerful it masks any trace of Stiles’ scent right now. It’s almost like Stiles isn’t even there, just the smell of magic sitting in his place.

Derek feels like he should be doing at least something in the way of foreplay before they get down to business. They tried to go at it cold last time and just made a mess of things. But unlike last time, Stiles has already stretched himself adequately, there’s no convenient excuse to do anything like that now.

Stiles doesn’t make a single move, not even to indicate what he expects from Derek. Which is a stupid thought to have, because Stiles only has _one_ —abysmally bad—experience to go by, so why would he know how to go about this. Maybe Derek can just play it by ear, doing what he likes and see whether or not Stiles enjoys it too.

Stiles stares down at his lap and is, once again, showing signs of regret about being here. Stiles startles when Derek puts a hand on his shoulder, he looks up, expecting to be shoved into a wall.

“Come here,” Derek says, trying to sound as nonthreatening as possible.

As he obeys and moves closer, Derek lets his hold fall from Stiles’ shoulder; moving both hands to Stiles’ painted waist. Stiles’ skin rises in goose bumps, but he doesn’t pull away, so Derek rubs his hands up and down trying to warm him. Derek half worries that the designs might run, but he can't feel any difference between them and Stiles' skin. He traces one with his fingers, but aside from a slight wriggle when Derek’s hands reach his ribs—along with the, “… _tickles_ …” that Stiles mutters—there is no outward reaction of discomfort.

Derek uses his grip to pull Stiles in his lap. They sit like that for a while, Derek touching Stiles’ sides, hands moving to his back and then around again to his torso. Stiles’ skin feels slightly cold under his hands and another wave of goose bumps ripple at Derek’s ministrations. Stiles eventually lets out a tiny sigh, his body slumps forward against Derek’s chest, sliding a loose embrace around Derek.

Stiles buries his face in Derek’s shoulder, “So yeah… this isn’t weird at all, but thanks I guess.” Stiles’ muffled voice sends a hot breath against Derek’s skin, making it tingle.

Derek hums back. If Stiles is talking, then things have definitely improved since last time.

Stiles’ head is just in the right position for Derek to nuzzle. Buzzed hair isn't as ticklish as Derek would’ve thought, just… scratchy and yet… soft against his cheek and lips. It feels nice, like velvet.

There’s something distinctly fresher—‘greener’ Derek's brain supplies, but smells don't have colors—coming through the robust smell of spices and herbs. Derek chases the greener scent until his nose is buried in Stiles’ hair. There’s sweat and pine scented soap, but under that there’s something more natural and… lighter. But Derek can't seem to place it exactly.

Stiles has been running a commentary on some topic or another, Derek doesn’t believe listening is actually expected of him. Instead, he concentrates on the feel of Stiles’ skin under his palms. This feels more intimate than the last time they were together. It’s… weird, what difference a hug can make.

Laura had a theory about hugs, that also included the “…long string of your one night stands and seriously, Derek, it’s high time you started looking for something more healthy,” speech. She only got to say it twice though; Derek was on his second month of pretending to have outgrown his hookup stage when Laura came back to Beacon Hills.

So as of tonight, Stiles is definitively no longer a one night stand. Derek already knew last time that he wouldn’t be able to treat Stiles like a hookup, because the boy simply doesn’t know the rules to casual sex. Stiles didn’t ask for one or go looking for one; so treating him like one, would be a shitty move to pull. Which circles back to Derek trying to make this enjoyable for Stiles.

Kissing would feel wrong, luckily Stiles is a teenager, so touching his dick should do the trick.

“Come on, let’s lay down,” Derek says while guiding Stiles into the position he wants him in, Stiles obediently lays on his side and Derek settles in behind him. Stiles does make a noise of protest at being manhandled though, and there's that sourness itching at Derek's nose again. 

Derek squeezes his fist around Stiles’ cock and Stiles objections die on his lips; by the next tug of Derek’s hand Stiles buries his face in a cushion, muffling a string of gravely groans. Even in bed, Stiles can’t keep silent.

It takes much more time, than Derek would ever give a one night stand, for Stiles to relax in his embrace. Derek doesn’t think it’s a guy thing, rather, it must be Stiles' brain lacking an off switch. Derek tries whispering words of encouragement into his ear, but Stiles only reddens and stiffens even further. Though it’s hilarious to watch, Stiles doesn't appear any more willing. Derek and chooses to remain silent after that.

Derek waits until Stiles sounds just on this side of wrecked—that moment where nothing can really get through to you—before releasing his grip on Stiles’ dick. He searches for the lube that Stiles left somewhere along their improvised bed. Stiles is not happy about that and makes another groan in protest. It seems that all Stiles can articulate at this point are whimpers.

Derek finally reaches the tube and turns back to task, only to be surprised by the glaze of unfocused amber eyes. Stiles had craned his neck around to look at him, with a desperate look of want on his face. Derek could almost say that Stiles looks… hot: flushed and panting; trying to burrow his back into Derek's warm torso. As Stiles turns his face forward again, he reaches his arm back to tangle a hand in Derek's hair. A big hand, Derek notices, with a strong grip.

Derek slicks himself as fast as he can. And well, since his hand is right there, Derek should probably test how loose Stiles’ entrance is; looks like he found that convenient excuse after all.

When Derek's finger breaches him, Stiles arches and moans and his entire body tries to pull Derek closer; the hand fisting hair at the base of Derek's skull, actually pulls hard enough that Derek's nose touches the nape of Stiles' neck. Derek takes a breath and almost gets a high off of the lust and pleasure that saturates the air so close to Stiles’ skin.

Unlike last time, Stiles reacts beautifully to having his ass played with. He gets into it and starts bucking back on Derek’s, now two, fingers. Just the noises—Derek never thought he'd be grateful for Stiles making _noise_ —and the _smell_ ; Derek actually wants to go through with the spell.

The moment when Derek pushes inside of Stiles is... well, it’s tight, living heat wrapping around him. He was so preoccupied with other thoughts the last time, he didn’t realize how amazing Stiles feels. Derek allows himself a shallow thrust of his hips to feel that pleasure again.

Pained groans do slow Derek’s pace, but he can’t bring himself to stop completely.

It’s stupid, but it’s been a long time since he felt so good. Since his sister's death, grief hadn't allowed need for physical relief to cross his mind. But now Derek's body is remembering that it actually enjoys sex. A lot. Somewhere in his head, Derek also remembers that moment when his mind blanks and all there is is pleasure without guilt or sadness. He is a little desperate to feel like that again.

Derek drives another thrust, enjoying the simple satisfaction of a warm body around his dick. The give of Stiles’ muscles welcome Derek’s every movement, even when Derek speeds up and deepens his strokes to reach the rhythm he revels in; sending sudden surges of euphoria when muscles clench tight around his length.

The pleasant sensation of his own muscles warming up as they move are only added to by the smooth skin sliding against his hands and torso. Derek eventually rolls Stiles onto his stomach to get a better angle.

What’s ‘great’ becomes ‘bliss’ and suddenly it’s a moment existing outside of time, where nothing matters. Just like Derek remembered.

Derek savors every second of afterglow he can get before Stiles goes lax under him. Which signifies that Stiles has gone into his spelled trance. Derek listen for Stiles’ heartbeat—without panicking because Stiles passing out happened the last time and that had been bad, but this time is okay because he expected it—and it’s calm and strong, so he pulls out, sitting up as he shifts Stiles into a comfortable position.

Stiles is still hard. It’s... weird, watching him lay there. His still hard dick rests firmly against his navel as Derek’s come trickles at his thighs. But right now, any action besides watching would make this feel like rape to Derek. 

So Derek drapes the covers over Stiles and lays back down next to him. There's a breeze whistling almost silently through the chimney. It's cold, but it feels good against his skin. It clears the air of the thick mix of sex, combining with Derek and Stiles’ scents, that lingers there. Derek waits, not sure if the spell will allow him to leave the circle before Stiles is done with… whatever he's doing right now.

He dozes, confident that Stiles’ unavoidable flailing and talking will wake him up soon.

***

Stiles wakes in the foulest mood Derek has ever seen him in. Kind of like a sullen five year old who wasn’t allowed to finish a nap. It’s ridiculous. Yes, Derek knows that Stiles is sore; and Derek has an inkling that Stiles must be physically frustrated too; neither of these spells have required Stiles to achieve any kind of release and Stiles has made it clear that this is work, not pleasure. Not to mention, probably exhausted from all the long hours of research.

Still, that’s no reason to treat Derek like a slave. Ordering him to erase the sigils before deciding that Derek can't be trusted to do it right; snatching that awful cinnamon candle out of his hands when went Derek gather the supplies; telling him every five seconds to stay away from The Book. Derek's simply trying to help negate the signs of practiced witchcraft in his ruined home; Stiles should actually decide if he wants that help or not. 

Despite his behavior at the house, Stiles is silent the entire drive home. It comes completely out of the blue when—still sitting inside the Camaro with one foot planted on the gravel path—he turns around and invite Derek in.

It’s not something Derek was prepared for. Nor did he ever imagine Stiles would stare him down, arguing his position with leftover lasagna; homemade or not.

“When was the last time you had an actual meal anyway? You don't honestly believe you can survive on the pizzas we get during pack meetings, do you?”

Derek can’t argue about the pizza, they have about as much nutritional value as a right-hook to the kidney. But he would also like to point out that he does, in fact, consume balanced meals. Anyway, the invitation couldn’t be because Stiles legitimately wants to see Derek eat healthy. If he did, he wouldn’t have allowed anyone eat those pizzas.

With Stiles looking about ready to annoyingly question Derek’s dietary choices until the sun comes up, Derek decides that—after driving Stiles home out of the kindness of his heart—he can be responsible for a second good deed tonight and agrees to lasagna.

The walk up the gravel path is dark and unseemingly long; Stiles fumbles with his keys when they reach the front door. As soon as he's inside, he rounds the entire first floor and pointedly turns on every possible source of light. While Derek’s eyes adjust to the onslaught of lamps, he takes a deep breath. Derek pulls in the smells of Stiles’s home: food going bad in the fridge, dust accumulating on the furniture and the staleness of windows closed for too long. Derek knows that it’s not obvious enough for the humans to pick up on, yet.

It’s the smell of a house that’s not lived in enough. Which makes considering the sheriff's long hours and Stiles…

What _does_ Stiles do when he’s not at school, working on homework, or doing researching for the pack?

He must cook… according to the inside of the fridge, which is brimming with leftovers. The dish of lasagna Stiles pulls out is impressive in size alone, obviously meant to feed a lot more than two people. When Stiles lifts of the foil, Derek can't help but notice how untouched it is, only one serving is missing. Stiles motions Derek toward the kitchen table and puts the plate in the microwave. He turns around, leans gently against the countertop while folding his arms across his chest.

They both stare at each other in silence. It feels even more oppressive with the empty house echoing the loud buzz of the microwave. Suddenly Derek has the burning need to know what Isaac and Peter are up to at the warehouse. He thinks about Scott, whether he is trying to win back Allison or just enjoying a night of gaming. Derek even wonders where Stiles’ dad is.

Stiles grows fidgety, he starts hopping from one foot on the other and eventually jerks away from the counter, breaking the silence by talking a mile a minute. “You know what? You’ve got this. I’m gonna go take a shower.” His feet drum loudly while climbing the steps and then against the hardwood floor upstairs. As if trying to compensate for the earlier silence.

The lasagna isn’t entirely terrible. Not enough salt, slightly too dry, but it’s also among the top ten best meals of Derek’s week. With his last mouthful of vegetable packed bolognese, Derek vows to go do real grocery shopping and buy a portable stove; _soon_. If Peter can turn fraction of his time lurking into something half as edible as Stiles’ cooking, then at least there’ll be _one_ good reason to keep him around. The pack will just have to make him try everything first. It would be just like Peter to poison everything.

Upstairs, the shower keeps running and the smell of steam—that Laura would always insist was not _actually_ a smell at all, even when Derek insisted he could smell it nonetheless—fills the house. Downstairs, Derek looks around the empty house and wonders what he should do with his plate, when Stiles is coming back down, and why he is here at all.

***

After forty-five minutes of continuous steam, Derek’s surprised that there’s still hot water left. He moved to the couch a while ago and turned on the TV because… well, because, Stiles invited him in and hasn’t told him to leave yet. A concept Derek still has trouble wrapping his mind around.

Derek never gets an answer to any of his questions. Stiles does eventually come back downstairs, he plops down next to Derek in front of the TV, but promptly passes out curled against the padded armrest.

The light from the TV deepens the shadows under Stiles’ eyes, making his cheekbones sharper and face look gaunt. It raises more questions as Derek debates whether he shouldn’t be more worried about Stiles’ dietary needs. Though he should probably be even more worried about leaving Isaac and Peter alone all night at the depot. With that thought, he decides he’s wasted enough of his life watching Television. Derek cautiously gets off the couch and pads toward the door, so he doesn’t wake Stiles as he heads out.


	3. Interlude I: Chris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If life is a road, where can Chris buy a map?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, long time no see. As you probably gathered, I'm a slow writer, but I get there eventually (in my defence, this chapter is a short story all on its own, 10k, that's not too shabby is it?).
> 
> Okay so this is one of the interludes, it contains no sex—sorry to disappoint :P—I hope you still like it. Whit it does have is a bit of plot, mainly a lot of character development and an answers that question that went in circle through my head when season 3 started: what happened to all the goons Chris had in his service in the first two seasons?
> 
> Also it's unbetaed, for which I apologise profusely but I thought you might like to have it sooner rather than proof-read. I can't see typo to save my life so hopefully it's not too bad.
> 
> We get back to regular schedule next chapter, which will come out… well. Don't be in too much of a hurry.
> 
> See you!

Until a few months ago, Chris liked to think of life as a road: a large highway going from beginning to end in a straight line.

Kate had taught him his road had stray paths where people lost themselves if they weren't careful.

Victoria was both half of his heart, his entire soul and his compass, her death left Chris stranded at a crossroad without directions.

Gerard made Chris realize that this highway he was so sure to follow was merely another dark path.

And this allegory is growing wings and soon to be escaping him.

Chris shifts in his too big, too empty bed and tries to find a position that will allow him to sleep. He usually falls asleep on his side, but the absence of Victoria behind him is like a cold draft running down his back. He has spent a week trying without success to convince his body that it could fall asleep lying on its back. His body has been spending this week telling him telling him to go fuck himself and jerking him awake every time he jumped that ledge leading down to morfeo's kingdom.

As his body once again raises him back to half-wakefulness, he has a blurred thought. If life is a road, where can Chris buy a map?

x-x-x

There were men at Victoria Argent's burial whose presence would have surprised the good citizen of Beacon Hill. If they had known where to look.

Chris knew, and had been the only one to nod at the man who had approached in the middle of the ceremony and lingered. Everyone else had seen him stand over a grave nearby and assumed it was curiosity.

No one had paid attention to the police cruiser and the deputy inside. Even when they had lowered the coffin and the man had brought two fingers to his temple in salute.

A local gardener—who had volunteered to replace the departed Mr. Lahey for the occasion—hadn't even garnered a single look. All of the attendants missed the rose he had added to the grave once his work was done.

And the priest, who is standing in Chris's doorway right now.

Knowing Bart's last words to Chris was to call him a "fucking quiter", a social call isn't very likely. It doesn't stop Chris from opening the door, thinking that Bart looks as weathered as ever despite sporting a tentative smile on his ugly mug.

"Chris," says Bart as he moves forward to clasp Chris's forearm in a strong grip. "I wasn't sure you'd open the door. I'm glad you did."

So is Chris, really. It's not Bart's presence that makes his face frown and his mouth curl in displeasure so much as guilt at the mix of relief and pleasure he feels at his old friend's presence. "Bart, what can I do for you?"

"Are you going to offer me a drink?"

Chris gestures for him to come inside. "Sure, still all about the coffee?"

Bart nods. "Wouldn't want to be caught drunk by all the crawlers out there."

"Amen to that." The words come out of Chris' mouth with the ease of old habits. Bart's down-to-earth attitude was always relaxing for Chris. It makes something in his heart ache.

Bart takes a second to take the flat in. Chris has received no visitors since he sold the house. The house was all Victoria. She had a way of making the cold color scheme and the modern furniture work. Maybe because she was all flame and light. Chris runs like a banked fire. Unless circumstances stoke him, he is happy to be a boring pile of coal. Therefore the flat is all wood and browns to make it warmer.

"I like what you did with the place," Bart decides in the end. They walk into the kitchen where Chris makes the coffee machine purr and work its magic.

While he does Bart keeps looking around. "Where do you hide the weapons?" he asks suddenly.

There it is, Chris thinks as he says: "I'm not coming back."

He has taken to repeat these words to himself every morning when he wakes up and every evening when he goes to bed. The funny thing is, the more he repeats it, awake and cold in his empty bed, the less convinced he feels .

"I'm not asking you to," Bart says, and Chris has a suspicion the flash of something in his eyes could be pity.

"What do you want, Bart?" Chris asks, taking shelter in a cupboard where he (dig) more than is needed for (coffee things).

"Nicky's in the hospital."

Chris waits for the rest, for either reassurance that it is nothing, or a grim prognostic and death not too long down the road. But by the time they are both sitting in front of a cup of coffee there is sill no information forthcoming.

"Will he be okay?" Nicky is a good guy. One of Sheriff Stilinski's deputies, he joined after the Kanima fiasco. After Chris said there would be no more hunting on his part. Chris doesn't think it means Nicky has stopped the hunt. "How did it happen?"

Bart's face splits open like a ripe fruit and he shows a set of brownish teeth. "The doughnut way of life has made him soft."

"So he's not dying?"

"Not as far as I can tell, I haven't gone to see him yet but Juan has. The kid is still as much of a little shit as ever from what I heard."

"Good," Chris thinks, not realizing he has said it out loud until Bart give him a look that says Chris is going soft too.

"Try and tell me the little shit hasn't grown on you, Bart."

Bart takes a sip of his coffee. "God be praised, Chris, you always make the best coffee."

Chris gestures to the machine, "It's all in the right equipment."

Bart snorts, "Yeah, don't think so, I tried one of these things, it's crap. Unless there are things you're not telling me about your coffee beans."

"Just the same grains from the store. There must be something you're doing wrong."

"And so long as I have you and coffee-to-go there's no point fixing it," Bart says with his cup all but cradled to his chest.

"Right, well if you don't mind I'd rather you didn't get your fix from me. You'll just bring trouble to my door and I'm retired."

"So you keep saying."

Bart lets the silence lingers while he finishes his cup. Chris isn't surprised when Bart puts down his cup and says:

"Just putting it out there, but there's a raise in missing pets, all from houses bordering the preserve. We've found pentagrams scribbled against a round of trees in the forest and candle wax at the old Hale house. Smelt like an herbal store in there."

And there it is, Chris thinks. "Now why would you tell me that?" The question steems from genuine curiosity this time. "Witches aren't my specialty."

Bart leans forward and his expression becomes even harder to read, a sure sign that he is uncomfortable with what he is going to say. "It's no secret that Allison is sympathetic to the local wolves."

Chris doesn't like that comment. At all. He leans forward, as casually as he can, and looks Bart straight in the eyes. "Are you threatening my daughter, Bart?"

Bart backs away and immediately starts protesting. "No, of course not. I like your kid, Chris. I understand that… well, the code exists for a reason. Not all of the crawlers are bad sorts at heart. But if word gets out that there is a witch in Beacon Hill and no one is doing anything... The local wolves are a lot of things, discreet isn't one of them. What if a crazy fuck like Kate, pardon my french, comes in town? What if they see your girl running around with the wolves?"

The Kate reminder is jarring, even more so coming from another hunter and with such… judgment. As long as Gerard was around no one would have dared say anything about her. Chris' father put her up as some sort of hero battling the forces of evil. No one would have said to his face that her indiscriminate killing was wrong. Even if it was.

It makes Chris ill when he thinks about the Hales, about some of the other stories he heard, before he made it clear that he didn't share in this kind of idea and didn't want to know what his sister had been up to. What Chris' whole family had been up to. Sometimes he brings it up, compares, questions. Invariably it makes him bring up Victoria's death and… and nothing good can come out of that.

Bart is still looking at him, hiding very badly how hopeful he is. Chris promises himself that he isn't going to do anything about it, just, if Allison is in danger, he needs to know.

"What did you find exactly and who else knows?"

x-x-x

Chris makes a detour by the hospital.

Nicky is mobile, but he has a safety belt shaped bruise peeking through the neckline of his hospital shirt and a nasty black ring around his left eye. His swollen face makes it look like he barely survived. Chris knows the cracked ribs are the worst of his injuries but the rest is still impressive. It reminds him of his own experience with a car accident when he drove into a crazed omega twelve years ago. That particular story ended in stitches and casts and a two-months immobilization at Victoria’s mercy.

God, he misses her.

"So that's what death warmed over looks like?" Chris says lightly, ignoring the burn in his heart that threatens to spread to his eyes.

Nick looks both pleased and wary. "If you have come to rub it in, Boss, don't think I won't sick the nurses on you."

Chris doesn't take Nicky's threat very seriously, Nicky has a reputation for being aggressive, but he has more bark than bite. Also, Nicky's career choice is too easy a target for anyone to resist. There is no doubts that a few of the others have already come around to share the "embellishments" that were added to the story of Nicky's accident as it made the round of the hunter grapevine.

"Bart says you were distracted by donuts," Chris can't resist mentioning.

"Bart is going to wake up with an arrow in his ass. Juan too. I was not hungover."

There is absolutely no doubt that Nicky was as sober as a tombstone. Nicky's mother was the drunk. Chris met the two of them in a deserted street while she was screeching and clawing at Nicky's face because her then 18 years old son—whom she had kicked out of the house two months earlier—was trying to carry her back home. Chris had tried to make them leave, Nicky had tried to break his head, the omega werewolf hiding behind the garbage container had tried to kill them all.

It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship, Bart likes to say. usually right before he delves into how much of a little shit Nicky had been back then.

"And he still is one now," Bart would finish.

It was one of Chris's life achievements that the little shit of yesterday had turned into a respectable married man. Looking at Nicky now though, it looks as if the werewolves have nothing on drunk drivers.

"So, how do a confused, slowed civilian gets the jump on one of my hunters if you weren't stuffing your face with donuts?"

"Just perks of wearing a uniform and having to warn people I'm coming I suppose." Nicky grimaces. "I was watching a stretch of road, saw this asshole who thought he was rally driving, turned on the sirens and followed him. Fool was high as a kite. He thought it was a good idea to ram into me and managed to crash the two of us in a tree. Shit, Chris, he kept trying to turn his car back on and even I could hear that his motor wasn't going anywhere with my face buried in the airbags and a concussion. He was still at it when reinforcement arrived. The guys had to wrestle him out of the car. I think Sheriff Stilinski was about to order them to shoot him in the knee just to calm him down."

Not so long ago, _the guys_ would have been Bart, Juan and the others. Chris doesn't know how this shift in loyalty makes him feel.

"How is the Sheriff treating you then?" he asks.

Nicky's face get a pleased smile. "I understand why people vote for him. He's a great boss. He said not to worry about my shifts and to take as much time as I needed. He's been covering for people left and right. And he's good at his job when it's not…" Nicky goes quite and his eyes shift to the door as though checking that no one can hear him, "you know… us, and all the werewolf shit. He's especially good with people. We let him handle all the cat ladies, they're putty in his hands." Nicky tries to laugh but it turns into a wince and him clutching his chest in a vain effort to make pain stop. "Really though," he says once he's breahting again, with a hint of puppy admiration in his eyes that was solely directed at Chris not too long ago, "he isn't how I expected at all. He's a great guy."

Knowing all the jokes that go around the men about the local authorities, Nicky's open admiration is almost a declaration of allegiance. And it is true that the sheriff is a good man, he just works without all of the pieces. Apparently Nicky thinks something similar because he adds, almost wistful, "I think he would make a great hunter. If he knew…"

"You think it would be better if he did?"

"Would be nice to not risk my job every time I have to hide evidence. Having the Sheriff on our side would help a lot."

Chris's personal opinion is that the Sheriff could prove to be as much of a pain as an asset. The Sheriff is a man of the law before all else. Dealing with the supernatural calls for a little more flexibility with one's sense of morality.

"Besides," Nicky continues, "His kid hangs around wolves and they pull him into all kind of dangerous situations. If it were Allison, would you not prefer to know?"

Chris thinks of Bart and his fear of the kind of hunter that could be attracted to Beacon Hill. No, he can't say that he would rather be kept in the dark about the kind of danger that can prey on his daughter.

"I'll think about what you told me," Chris promises. He will ask Victoria what she thinks because she is by far the best judge of…

Who is Chris kidding, he can't do this without her help. This is why he is retired.

"Actually, why don't you take it up with Bart? He is the one in charge now isn't he?"

Nicky opens his mouth, no doubt to protest. Chris holds up a hand and stops him. "I need to go, but I'm glad you're okay."

x-x-x

Chris almost walks into a box on his way out. The box is cardboard and white and attached to Sheriff Stilinski's hand. He and Chris both turn the same corner at the same time and it is a good thing that the two of them seem to have such good reflexes; they barely avoid the collision. Sheriff Stilinski immediately offers an apology and Chris answers it, ready to be on his way. He is not expecting the Sheriff to stand in the way and say "Mister Argent, how are you doing?" as though he is really interested in the answer.

"Good, Sheriff, I'm doing good, thank you for asking." Chris wonders why the man cares. It might be nothing more alarming than feeling bad for Victoria. It might be that the sheriff is one of those parents who think they should know the parents of their kid's friends. Are Allison and Stiles friend?

It has been a long time since Chris sat Allison down and made her tell him her day.

Suddenly Chris wonders what he has bee doing exactly during the past month or so. He remembers worrying about Allison, thinking of Victoria and trying to find a way to keep going without her, wondering how his family could have gone to shit so deep and so fast without Chris even noticing. Sometimes Chris wonders why he is the only normal human to come out of the Argent bloodline. No, really, what happened to them all? What happened to the code? What happened to being the good guys?

"Are you here to visit someone?" the sheriff asks.

"Yes, I was. You?"

"One of my deputies," Sheriff Stilinski answers, sounding possessive to Chris's ears. Possessive but also proud. "He was injured doing his job and protecting the city, the least I can do is pay him a visit." He presents the box he is carrying. Chris spots the logo of the local doughnut shop, he makes a note to let Bart know.

He leaves the Sheriff with another reassurance that he is doing good. He doesn't give the man enough time to ask whom Chris is visiting.

The trouble with their little hunter family is that it probably looks awfully like a private army to outside eyes.

xxx

With being retired and newly widowed comes all the empty hours Chris is not spending in the company of his friends or his wife. It is a cruel twist that it should give him even more time to reflect over what he has lost. Compared to that, suffering through archaic Latin and the nonsensical phrasing of the family bestiary doesn't sound so bad.

_Just out of curiosity._

As it turns out, witches are not covered in any detail. Chris has to look for other sources.

The next day, he drives to the two places that Bart mentioned.

He starts with the forest and ends at the old Hale house. The first spot provides no more than the sigils—Chris doesn't know what they mean but he replicates them in a notebook, just in case— the later is a far more promising lead.

Bart was right. Inside, the house smells like incense and herbs. One of the rooms has been cleared and dusted. There is also candle-wax drips in the shape of a circle on the ground. Chris hasn't learnt much about witches, but this—provided it isn't the doing of a teenage girl fancying herself a Wiccan—looks like a ritual circle. Ritual circles are used for powerful magic. Now, there are instances of magic used for the greater good, but Beacon Hill has proven to be a magnet for power-hungry bastards, Chris's family included.

If there is anyone in town capable of working powerful anything, Chris- _Local hunters_ should probably have a talk with it. It will make the search easier when people start dying and the culprit need an arrow shot in his black husk of a heart.

The wind has been making the house creak and groan, but suddenly, one particular squeak catches Chris's attention, pushing him to step in a shadowy corner. He isn't hiding per se, but it will give him just enough time to be ready if whoever enters the room is hostile.

The man who appears in the doorway is tall, pale and blond, like a faded photograph.

Chris was never able to decide if the irony resided in Juan's appearance or his name.

"Juan."

At the sound of his name Juan both turns toward Chris's corner and brings a hand to the inside of his jacket. Chris has no doubt that something nasty is hidden inside. He doesn't get to see what, as Juan spots him and relaxes at once.

"Chris."

They take each other in without a word. Eventually Juan diverts his attention to the wax circle. "Bart said you were taking a look," he tells the ground. "In a non-returning capacity," he adds like a question.

Chris makes a noise that can be interpreted anyway Juan wants. He is tired of giving that explanation again and again. They all heard him the first time.

Juan moves to a certain point in the room where he points to a stain. "I think this place might be used by the local youth as a meeting spot."

It takes a moment for Chris to understand what Juan is telling him.

"You mean kids come here to have sex."

Daring each other to get into the haunted house, Chris could understand. But who is crazy enough to want to get naked in this nightmare of a house?

Juan shrugs. "It could be the witch. We only noticed the rest when we started noticing the sigils in the forest."

Chris adds potential coercing of young people to his mental picture of their new supernatural resident. It's getting less pretty by the second.

"What exactly have you found?"

"An empty bottle of lube in that corner over there, a scrape of fabric with… telling stains. A few herbal debris, a few ink stains. Traces of cars as well."

Chris thinks of asking Scott if the pack has seen anything. In fact, his first thought is to ask Allison if Scott knows anything. But that would mean addressing the elephant residing in their apartment. Chris isn't quite ready for that. Lying to his men about coming back to hunting sounds easier than telling his daughter he is finding he can't keep his word after all.

Then it occurs to him that this house is like Derek's personal temple of pain and angst to his family. He would not let kids or witches desecrate the place. If he knows, he must already be looking for the witch. If he does not, there is an easy way to remedy the situation.

"I have an idea."

Juan smiles. "I never had any doubt."

x-x-x

The depot is even worse than the house in some ways.

Chris went from a Victorian mansion to a flat, he knows about making due. But this, this is not even spartan. This is a blatant reject of comfort and normalcy that speaks loudly about Derek's psyche and how damaged it is. It looks bad enough to make Chris wants to offer him the name of his therapist. Well, when he says his, Chris means the name of the therapist he has chosen to go see, someday, when he is ready.

Derek has been trying to glare him down since Chris entered the place. Werewolves, their imagination stops at partial-shifting and growling. As if that was going to impress any hunter worth his salt. Being ignored has soured Hale's expression to the point where it has become funny and it makes Chris wonder how the other kids bear with the guy. It is probably a show of early maturity that they can socialize with him at all.

Well. There are bad news to deliver and a witch to find. Chris needs to get that out of the way before supper. He does not have time to wonder about Derek's lack of social skills. So Chris nods to the young Alpha of Beacon Hills "Derek."

"What do you want?" Derek growls, words coming out mangled through his fangs. If this isn't a proof that werewolf haven't been built for human interaction, Chris doesn't know what is. Why bother communicating with a species whose idea of a greeting is a warning growl?

Oh yes, cheap labor.

There is no need for a veneer of politeness. Derek probably believes that everyone is out to manipulate him—not that he hasn't ample reason to think that, if Chris were in his shoes he would do the same—which makes it easier to just be forthright with it. "There is a witch in town. Whoever it is has been spending time around your property in the woods."

The growling stops

Derek does not answer. It makes it hard to judge whether Chris presented enough of a hook for Hale to do something about the witch. Sometimes Chris regrets McCall and his bleeding heart. Scott would never stand for a potential threat living in the woods. Then again, his solution might be "let's be friend". If Derek does anything about the witch, at least Chris knows it will be more permanent.

"I read witches like to use werewolves as a source of power. Especially established packs," Chris says. The little information about witches he found in the bestiary was linked to werewolves. A note saying that packs seem to attract practitioners of the craft who either pray upon wolves or become part of a symbiotic relationship with them.

"Why are you telling me this?" Derek growls.

It is a little disappointing that the young man isn't clever enough to put it together. Unless… Upon closer inspection, Derek has the guarded air of someone fishing. Not for information he doesn't possess either, but to gauge what Chris knows.

Chris does not want to think of the amount of trouble they will be in if the witch contacted Derek to propose a pact. An angry and paranoid alpha with a witch to provide enough raw power to create powerful spells is exactly what Beacon Hill doesn't need.

Chris' thoughts are interrupted when a flash of movement alerts him to the entrance of a new player. His first idea is Peter Hale. When he looks to the side though, it is merely the Stilinski boy, carrying a laptop and a few sheets of paper.

Chris's mind immediatly goes full steam. Where Stiles goes Scott is bound to follow. Or precedes. Him and Derek only got together to deal with the rogue alpha and the Kanima—a pity, Scott is a calming force who could do Derek's wild betas a lot of good. They must already be working to find the witch. Chris' fear about it being powerful true then.

Chris turns to Derek one last time. "I said everything I had to say. I will leave you two boys to your date." Stilinski flails and almost drops his load. How this kid survived this far is beyond Chris' comprehension.

Chris side-steps him without sending a second looks his way. Someone is taking care of the witch. His job here is done.

x-x-x

That evening, Chris allows himself the luxury of takes-out. He phones a sushi place he and Allison like and orders a feast for two. They deserve it, Chris for resisting temptation and Allison for doing so well in her recovery. She has come back from her darker emotions and is now mourning her mother with just the normal sadness-devoid of lethal intensions-of a young girl. Despite feeling like someone is carving at his heart with a knife every time he thinks about Victoria or Allison's pain, Chris is proud of his daughter.

He wishes he knew how to tell her that.

The delicious food on the table is not enough it seems. The meal is one of the most awkward they have had so far, even more strained than the first one they had after Victoria's death, where Chris had to drag his wife's empty chair out of the room, eyes burning with tears he refused to shed in front of his daughter.

The whole table and chairs set went to goodwill when they moved.

After Allison clears her throat—with enough insistence to hint that it isn't the first time—only to ask for the water jug that stands centimetres away from her elbow, Chris gives up on his raw fish.

"What is it?"

"Uncle Bart came to see you." There is no accusation in her voice. Nor any positive emotion.

Chris thinks of telling her about the witch. But that would mean explaining that he has no intention to do anything about it, that he sent his daughter's ex-boyfriend to do the job.

"Yes, Nicky is in the hospital, Bart came to tell me," he says. On the other hand, the other teenagers will probably warn her. Chris knows they asked her for access to the family bestiary on occasions. So Chris adds, "and to warn me about a witch."

He doesn't expect Allison to show anything. Since Gerard, she has developed a poker-face even Chris can't decipher, but there is a second of surprise she cannot entirely hide.

"I told him I was retired." Chris explains, "I warned Derek and I won't have anything to do with it."

Allison takes another bite of fish without saying anything. There are proverbial clock-wheels running behind her eyes though, so Chris is expecting a second round of questions.

"I think it's good that you talk to uncle Bart. You need friends too," she says taking him completely by surprise. So much so that he doesn't know what to answer back.

The rest of the meal happens in silence. Despite what Allison thinks, Chris isn't that certain that his old friends are good for him. Good things need to be worked for, they don't just feel like slipping on a comfortable pair of well-worn sleepers at the end of a long day.

x-x-x

A few days later, all of Chris's optimism comes crashing down at his feet.

First there was the frustration of keeping away from anyone involved with the pack who could have told him where their research was at. Then there was the growing need to ask Allison where she was going every time she left the house. Chris had almost forbid her to go anywhere the evening before, when she had come to kiss his cheek before leaving with Lydia.

Then Bart phoned him to let him know that hunters would be coming after all.

"Smith is leading this particular hunt. He's due in town in two days." 

There aren't enough shady motels in Beacon Hill for the Hunter to have a real choice. Chris is parked on the other side of the Beacon Inn with a pair of binocular and a brown bag filled with sandwiches.

Waiting.

Around noon, a black SUV and a battered looking Dodge Charger turn into the Beacon Inn parking lot. Four guys and a woman come out of the SUV. They look young, wear leather jackets and boots and look even shadier than Derek Hale and his pack of teenagers ever did.

Chris takes a moment to mourn respectability.

Out the Charger comes a man who looks to be in his forties and Chris has a brief moment of hope when he notices the plain, brown coat. This must be Smith. At his side is a second woman, this one dressed like a soccer mom.

Everyone forms a loose circle as Smith talks to the younger members of his group. He looks competent enough, but his eyes can't seem to settle and his smile is a little bit too wide. He just looks too jumpy. In Chris' experience, jumpy people and guns don't mix well together especially in stressful situations. Everyone keep silent through Smith's speech. They are so still Chris checks if they are still blinking.

This doesn't look good, Chris decides. He is starting to feel bad for the witch. And now is is definitively worried for Allison. These people won't be asking questions before they shoot. Chris wants them gone as fast as possible.

While he thinks this, Chris spots Bart walking on the sidewalk towards him. When Bart slows down next to his car, Chris unlocks the door and invites him in.

"Are you here for them or for me?"

"Chris. I'm here to go talk to Smith, but I had a feeling I might find you around." Bart checks out the window as he says this and his eyes find the SUV and the Charger. "Already here I see."

Chris passes him the binoculars and Bart accepts them without a word. Chris waits until the other man has had time to get a good look at the people before saying, "I don't like the look of them. How do you know Smith?"

Bart gives him back the binocular. "I worked in a parish near Roseburg. We had a witch problem. A real one. Unexplainable sicknesses spreading through the town, food going bad, ritual killing, mainly of animals but it was escalating to bigger and bigger pets and just before we put an end to it a young man had disappeared. Smith and his men arrived. It was a different team back then. There were a few regrettable accidents, mainly old celibate women, the problems stopped."

"So he is on the… very proactive side?"

"Most of the women who died were part of a small book club or related. Afterward I wondered about two relatives, a sister and a daughter… well, blood isn't everything. There had been plenty of evidences at the houses the women shared with proved witches, and it was a bit late to ask." Bart shrugged. "Plus Smith has a reputation for being very effective and very thorough without making a fuss. The same kind of reputation Kate had."

Chris lets that sink in. "Should I ground Allison for a few days?"

Bart nods. "That would be best."

x-x-x

Chris is pacing his apartment, going over the Smith situation in his mind when his doorbell rings.

Stiles Stilinski is waiting at the door.

Chris has to take a second to wonder how Derek could have possibly justified this choice of emissary to himself. It has potential, sure. In Scott and Stiles' duo Stiles is obviously the planner, the fast-thinker. He is also the most out of touch with reality if the way he gets out of his way to annoys people and come up with impossible schemes is any indication.

Right now, the teen is holding himself very straight, puffing his narrow chest to make himself look bigger. It is 100% bravado. Chris knows all he would need is invite the kid in and start playing with a kitchen knife to deflate him into his usual shifty eyed jumpiness.

"We need to talk," Stiles says with a faint waver in his voice.

It makes sense that Stiles first words should be a big cliché. The kid probably gives himself a sense of control by imagining his life as a movie. Chris feels a little sorry for him.

Two steps inside the flat, Stiles starts looking around at anything and everything as though he doesn't remember the reason for his visit. The teen moves to examine a book here, a picture there and Chris is reminded of Allison when she was three years old. Back then, Chris lived in constant fear that she would fall of shelves or follow butterflies on the road. Her growing up made his worries more bearable, even if it brought new ones about car accidents, abusive relationships, death by kanima...

And those are about dependable, mature Allison. What goes through the Sheriff's mind when he worries for his son?

When Stiles starts fiddling with a frame, Chris clears his throat. "You wanted to talk?"

Stiles turns around so fast it is a miracle he doesn't give himself whiplash. "Yes! Talk. I came to do that. Because there are things I need to know. You can tell me those things." And then he waits, as though this was enough for Chris to guess what this is all about. Well, Chris has an idea. It involves a witch and the hunters in town. Though Derek might not have known about the latter when he sent Stiles.

Since Stiles is blinking owlishly at Chris, maybe trying to be intimidating—but only managing to look like an idiot—Chris decides to see what he can fish out.

"I guess you want my informations on witches? They aren't very complete."

"Your informations on witches," Stiles repeats like it hadn't crossed his mind. "We assumed you had told Derek everything you knew. Is there more? Do you have a bestiary on witches? Do you know who it is?"

Not the witch? What are they up to then?

"We were more worried about the hunters," Stiles continues without giving Chris any time to answers. "You do know that you have new friends in town Mister Argent? Actually we know that you know. We would just like to know what you know so that we might know if the hunters know that we know. Of them. Knowing about us. Do they know about us? Actually, what do you know about them? You grounded Allison so it's bad isn't it? Do I need to hide the wolves?"

Chris makes a conscious effort to bring his eyebrows down from where they are trying to reach his hairline. Can Stiles follow all the words coming out of his own mouth?

"Sir? Should I? They're here for the witch aren't they? Do they also follow the code or will they go on a supernatural genocide?"

Chris' first reflex hasn't changed. He wants to believe in the code, wants to tell Stiles that all hunters do too. But there are Bart's words to consider. And Gerard, who locked Stiles in a basement and beat on him, despite the fact that he was human and innocent.

Chris is suddenly reminded that the group he manipulated into doing his job is mainly composed of teenagers, kids younger than his own daughter. With all the murders, it is sometimes hard to remember that most of these kids haven't done anything wrong. Even Derek is only indirectly responsible for Victoria's death.

"Tell Derek and Scott… tell them to keep a low profile for some time. Let these guy do their job, they'll be out of town before you know it."

Something passes in Stiles' eyes, but Chris doesn't know the teen all that well and it has shifted into curiosity before Chris can identify what it was.

"Aren't _you_ going to do anything?" Stiles asks, innocent like only a guilty child can be. This is how Chris knows the reproach he hears in the sentence isn't just his guilt playing with his mind, but something Stiles put in here consciously.

"I'm retired" are the last—weak—words Chris exchanges with Stiles before seeing him to the door.

God, Chris thinks as he closes the door, how could Chris put Allison's security in the hands of the lost boys and girls and ever think it would be enough?

x-x-x

Chris contemplates going to Juan and Bart and let them convince him to come back. There would be guilt in this path, but at least the witch problem would be dealt with and Chris would have the comfort of belonging somewhere again. The problem with functioning in a group for too long is that you become ill equipped to deal on your own. Ironically, Derek Hale is the best exemple of that.

But there is Allison to consider. She is well on the path to recovery, but she need Chris to remains a constant in her life. So he can't just back out on his promise to her that this part of their life is over. She needs normal. She needs a father who listen to her tell shopping stories and will buy her ice-cream when her heart gets broken. It is the least Chris can do. Gerard might be the one who made the seed of darkness grow in her heart, but the one who planted the seed was Chris when he taught her how to kill and maim.

When Chris feels like he will explode if he doesn't talk to another person, he drives to Nicky's place. He feels better just sitting in the young man's sofa. Nicky is now discharged but stuck in the small house he and his wife bought when they got married. Chris knows for having lived in a similar house when eh was younger that it is just big enough for a young couple wishing for a kid. Siting here, with the little knick-knacks left by Nicky's wife surrounding them… it brings back memories that feel all the more sour for how sweet they were not so long ago. Chris feels like he should warn Nicky about happiness. How it never lasts. How having known it makes despair feel that much more crushing.

"How about beer?" Nicky proposes after glancing through the content of his fridge.

"Didn't know you liked the stuff," Chris remarks, taking the bottle Nicky is holding out for him.

"I don't, Lena likes to have some when she has guests over," Nicky explains, taking a bottle of water for himself.

Victoria had wine for that. Chris just stays stocked in coffee, even though the person who likes it most is Bart and Bart doesn't really come around anymore. By Chris's own demand.

"You're thinking of Victoria aren't you?" Nicky asks, voice low and sad.

Chris tries to smile it off, but it is hard to make your face show what your heart really isn't feeling.

"It's okay, you're allowed to miss her," Nicky says with a simple honesty that he doesn't show nearly as often as he should. Lena truly does him good.

"I keep seeing her everywhere," Chris admits.

"She was special." Out of the blue Nicky smiles. "I was terrified of her, but I was glad to know she had my back."

Chris nods. "Juan said something similar after the funeral."

"We should have one of those Irish wakes, one where we gather, drink and tell stories about her. Just us." There is no doubt as to who this "us" is. Their little hunter family. And Chris is frightened by how much he wants to make Nicky's idea come true. All the people who knew how ruthless and magnificent Victoria could be, in a room together, praising her courage and her intelligence. Chris would like that so very much.

"Bart and Juan, they're not really angry," Nicky continues. "They'd come, they wouldn't even ask you to come back."

Chris feels like ruffling Nicky's hair. He is such a kid sometimes. Wanting all his parental figures to stick together instead of going through a much-needed divorce.

"At this point I don't think they would need to do much asking."

"Then why don't you come back? I understand that the hunt got warped, but, if it got changed once, we can change it again. Okay, the wolf-kids here might not deserve to be hunted, but there are still omegas out there and creatures that don't care about who they hurt. What about those?"

"Until what?" Chris asks softly. "The next dead? I don't want to burry my daughter next to her mother, or for her to have to burry me. Would you sacrifice Lena to the hunt?"

"If you think like that you're never going to step out of your house, Chris. It's about the people we save, about kids like me and kids like Stilinski's son and his friends. You saved me because you were brave enough to get out there. Who's going to save them?"

"Save them?" the words leave a bitter taste in Chris's mouth. Especially because he suddenly—strangely—finds them to sound true. "They don't need saving. They defeated the alpha almost on their own and they are the only reason why we don't have a flying Lizard still running amuck in this city. And while they saved our asses all we managed was to lose Victoria and get in the way. Why should we keep going?"

Nicky shakes his head but he doesn't tell Chris that he is wrong and that what they did mattered. "I stand by what I said, Chris. They're just kids."

x-x-x

Nicky's last words take root in Chris' mind. Three days later he is still trying to weed them out when he spots Stiles in the grocery store. It is a reflex to hide behind the nearest shelve. And while he wonders why he did it, it is also a reflex to keep Stiles in sight.

Stilinski. Scott's friend. Allison's maybe friend. The Hale pack's mascot.

A kid.

Chris tries to ignore what he knows of Stiles, to un-see the young man who crashed through a wall to run over a kanima, who survived Matt during the assault of the sheriff station and who helped kill Peter Hale. To just look at the person who is doing groceries amongst the crowd of harried housewives and retired couples; who looks up the notice at the back of a pack of butter and puts it back in favor of a brand that boasts low-cholesterol.

 _A kid_. A gangly person who is growing into a body that was still that of a child not too long ago. Someone the government considers unfit to drink, to vote, or to take important decisions. Someone who gets told to do his homework, to come sit at the table for dinner, to be home before eleven at night.

Chris has a feeling Stiles hasn't been told to do any of these things in a long time. Hell, everyone knows Stiles is haranguing his father into eating healthy. Chris is ready to bet Stiles also complains about the hours the sheriff is keeping lately and telling him to get more rest.

Chris can't look at Stiles and see a kid. Because, now and forever, he remains someone who will attack monsters instead of running for his life.

This is not very different from the young man Chris used to be. In the end, even though they fight on different sides, they are soldiers drafted in the same war. But Chris had a safety net, intel on his enemies, equipment adapted to the task, veterans to guide him. And the code. Even if the rest of Chris' family didn't honor it, even if everyone else buried it to better loose their way. Chris still believes in it. 

The war is over for him. But it isn't for the kids of the Hale pack. Maybe now is the time to get _them_ ready. Chris could become part of the safety net. He could help the next generation turn into worthy adults. The hunters failed, why not give the hunted a chance?

Chris could live with that. He thinks Allison would approve.

As soon as Chris takes his decision, he feels instantly much lighter.

Still high on relief, he phones Bart and Juan and asks them to meet him at his apartment. They need to be in on this. Chris believes that they will embrace his middle ground without much of a fuss. They will need to help the Hale pack stay safe until they can deal on their own anyway, the hunt isn't entirely over yet.

There is a witch that needs taken care of.

x-x-x

Bart's enthusiasm for Chris's plan is as limitless as his appreciation of his coffee. Juan isn't talking, but he doesn't look like he hates the idea.

"It's good to see you take the lead again," he just says.

"Damn right it is," Bart mutters in his chair, "But it'll be better to see you hunt. Come on, I'll gather the others, we have a witch to catch."

That night, they drive to the Hale house and find Smith's Charger parked there already. There are also three of Chris' people gearing up for a hunt in the wood. They aren't as welcoming as Bart was, but they still accept Chris' return without making a fuss and get in line when Chris orders them to get the equipment they brought for this hunt.

Juan sits in front of the newly set up radio and start going through frequencies.

Everyone is silent, except for Bart who can't seem to keep quiet and starts getting impatient after only a couple minutes. "If they aren't talking, that plan is going to fall short," he grumbles. "What sort of group doesn't banter over the radio?"

"Well trained ones," Juan comments, turning the frequency button another half-milimeter.

Someone snorts. "The only two who can't shut up are you and Nicky, Bart. Otherwise we would be perfectly silent during hunts."

Bart gives him the middle finger. "Gotta keep the kid entertained. Who knows what he'd do otherwise." He is about to add something, but Juan bring his fingers to his lips to ask for some quiet. There is a brusque whisper coming from the radio, Smith's voice asking for somebody's position. Seconds later another voice whispers about a creek. Before Chris has to tell him anything, Bart has their map of the woods spread out and his fingers is soon pointing at a little blue dot. "Right here, he says. Knowing Smith he'll have his men positioned around the circle in the woods," he points it on the map.

Chris is about to tell his men to take a group each and keep an eye on them when the radio starts to crackle again as someone hisses, "Is that a wolf? What is it doing here?"

Bart's face goes a particularly sour shape of frustrated.

Juan's downturned corner of the mouth says he shares the sentiment wholeheartedly. "The kids?" he asks.

"Fucking crawlers," Bart mutters, "couldn't have stayed put for once?" He turns to Chris. "What now?"

Is Allison with them? Is all Chris can think about. She was safe at home when he left an hour ago. And wasn't he telling Stiles to stay put a mere handful of hours earlier? What is Derek thinking bringing his wolves in now? What the fuck is going on?

"We need to get going," Chris orders. "Stay grouped," he adds when Juan starts gesturing to one of the guys to split and follow.

Chris doesn't know what the wolves are playing at, but he will get to the bottom of this thing and he will make sure only the witch gets what she deserve and all the kids stay safe for once.

x-x-x

The forest doesn’t get darker as they approach the area where Smith should be, but the air feels stiller, with an exotic scent permeating the area, something almost spicy and with a hint of old paper in it.

Sometimes Chris wishes he had a wolf's nose, being able to recognize and track things by scent sounds so useful. Also, all the smells that a human nose cannot perceive, do they make the world fuller? Wider? Tastier maybe?

The sigils are here too. The ink seems to catch and reflect the light like metal engravings against the bark of the trees. As their party advance, those trees grow wider, the light dimmer and the ferns leave place to moss and a bed of pine needles.

They breach a particularly thick wall of trees and step into a clearing of sort. The smell of old paper strengthens as though they have reached its source. Chris realizes that the spicy smell is actually incense. It smells like a witch’s haunt. Stronger even than it had in the clearing Chris inspected the other day.

"This place is not right," Bart whispers. Chris sees him take a sniff and then look around. "Hey, do these markings on the trees look like they make a circle to you?"

Chris feels a weight settle in the pit of his stomach as he notices that indeed, they do.

"Back," he whispers hurriedly, "get back."

Everyone turns around. This is as far as they get, because the second Juan—the fastest of them all—reaches the trees that mark the edge of the circle it is like a gust of wind whirls around them, chasing the pine needles, moving them to reveal ground. There is no denying the circle shape now that it is drawn down on the ground in black naked earth. Juan goes crashing in an invisible barrier.

Bart stops just at the edge and he shares an horrified look with the rest of the men who start looking around for another exit. Chris wonders if any of them has seen the resemblance between this naked line of dirt and a mountain ash circle, and if anyone else will get the irony.

From behind Chris a voice booms through the clearing, "And _this_ is how it's done."

That voice.

Chris whirls around. What looked like an empty area of forest seconds ago now contains three people. Derek Hale looks as bland and incapable of emotions as usual. Sitting primly on a rock is a woman wearing a white blouse, a long green skirt and a pout. A hemp rope binds her hands. Standing on Derek's other side is a grinning Stiles.

Behind Chris, everyone immediately turn their weapons against the three people who just appeared by magic. Chris is proud when they wait for his signal before shooting.

There are so many things wrong about the scene in front of him, Chris doesn’t really know where to start. First, as soon as the guns turn on them, Derek and the woman go rigid in anticipation, but Stiles has yet to start flailing and reminding everyone of his human mortality. Then there is the rope around the witch's wrists. If Derek and Stiles went to the trouble of tying her, it probably cuts her off from the magic. If it does, who cast the illusion that kept Chris and his men from seeing them?

Chris doesn't let his thoughts show on his face, he shifts his crossbow to his left hand and aim it away from the people. He doesn't get closer to Stiles and Derek though.

"Is she our witch?" he asks.

The witch turns cold disdainful eyes on Chris but doesn't say anything.

Derek nods his head. "She is," he states, voice flat. At the same time, Stiles rises to his feet looking very proud of himself.

"We caught her red-handed. Scott is bringing back the surviving pets she stole," he explains. It sounds good, simple, convincing. Almost. _Who cast the illusion?_ If the girl did, then the rope is a fake and she can cast. She either has Derek and Stiles in her power or they were on her side from the beginning. Their presence here and the last Chris heard from Smith can't be good then. On the other hand, if someone else has magic… Stiles seems the only good candidate. God, if Stiles has magic then Chris doesn't know what is going on.

"How did you catch her?" he asks, hoping to get a clue, or at least more time to think.

His questions earns him an unreadable look from Stiles and a displeased frown from Derek, who starts explaining something about infused rope. It is the way he sounds as he speaks—like he learned his explanation beforehand—that makes Chris signal his men to be on their guard. Feigning nonchalance, Chris takes a step back, then turns as though he is just checking on Juan, standing directly at his left. What he is really checking is who is aiming for who in the strange trio and what distance separate the hunters from the circle. Now that the illusion is revealed, is it down?

When Derek stops talking Chris turns back to face him to ask another question. Derek looks less wary as he starts to answer. The funny thing is, it sounds more natural this time. If he had started like that, Chris wouldn't have noticed anything.

Too bad Chris isn't the only one noticing things, five words in, Stiles puts a hand on Derek's arm.

"Don't bother," he says, voice even, flat almost for someone usually so expressive, "they're stalling." Addressing Chris he adds, "I guess it was a long shot. Sorry, but we had to try."

Chris gesture Juan and Bart closer and the other three to keep their position. The two men come standing at his side, weapons now only on Stiles. Did they make the same guess Chris did?

"What's going on here?" Chris asks, foregoing the cold hunter persona for something closer to parental disappointment. He has a feeling trying to intimidate Stiles and Derek has done its time, but maybe he can call on their guilt.

He addresses the question to Derek but it is once again Stiles who speaks. "What are you doing here, Mister Argent? I thought you were retired."

"And I thought I told you to stay put. What happened to the hunters who came here?"

For once it isn't Derek or Stiles who answer but the witch—if she is a witch at all. She starts laughing, a loud and almost masculine sound that makes her whole chest move. Despite how fully she gives into it, it has an edge of desperation like she could start sobbing just as easily. "Oh," she says when she has some breath back from laughing so hard, "you are so screwed, hunters. I am almost glad you all came running after me." He bound wrists lift so that she can point at Stiles. "Now you can start targeting the real threat and go after this one." Her voice go quiet, as though she were sharing a secret. "Then again, he has more power than he lets on and you might just find that he has enough power to kill you all."

Chris zeroes in on Stiles, trying to read him despite the blank face that looks really unnatural on the teen. All through the witch's speech, Stiles just looks at her with barely a disgusted curl of his mouth. He never tries to shut her up.

"Is that what happened to the others?" Chris asks Stiles, a cold shiver slithering down his spine as he entertains the idea, "did you kill them?"

Stiles snorts. "As though Scott would allow something like that." It's an honest reaction, while Chris is reassured by its sincerity, a voice at the back of his mind comments that Scott not condoning it doesn't mean _Stiles_ wouldn't entertain the idea.

Derek is still standing near the witch, looking tense and unbalanced. Just like with his earlier words, it feels as though his actions are not his own. And it hits Chris suddenly that the balance of power isn't just distorted but has tipped right over on its axis.

Stiles is in charge of this show.

Maybe his realization show on his face, maybe Stiles has had enough of this dead-end discussion, he raises two hands as if inviting a crowd to stand up and the forest floor tremble under Chris's feet. A glance around him shows that everyone is so very close to just fire away, damn the consequences. Suddenly, light starts shining around them in a circle that fits with the limit of the dirt line and nature becomes crazy.

Ivy pushes out of the earth and in the blink of an eye the grass reaches Chris's knees. A few gunshot rings, Bart's gun at least and a dozen rounds from behind Chris. As Juan's weapons starts to discharge more regularly at his left, Chris aim his own crossbow at Stiles, still uncertain of whether or not he really wants to shoot.

The decision is made when he sees that Juan's bullets have done nothing and that Stiles still stands immobile as stone and just as uncaring. And then the flora is trying to rip his crossbow away from him and Chris realizes that fighting won't give him anything.

"What do you want?" he shouts, letting his weapon be torn away by a thorny bush and lifting his hands in surrender.

What a great leader he makes. Come to put the situation to right and instead he did nothing, didn't even manage to lead his own men. Overcome in five seconds by a teenager, without Derek and his wolves needing to do anything at all. What a big joke.

It is a relief when everything quiets around him, when Bart's screams of outrage and the crack of gunshots become merciful silence and the ground is stable again.

One look behind shows five hunters caught in vines and trees, starring around with eyes gone as wide as saucers, eyes never landing on Chris right. Like they can't see or hear him.

At the front, the witch is looking around also unable spot them, but she doesn't look as panicked as Chris' men. Stiles doesn't have the same problem. His eyes are fixed on Chris. Gone is the teen with hunched shoulders, fearing for his friends. Gone the fidgety teenager with the attention span of a three years old. Gone also the unraveling thoughts coming out in tangling strings of words. Instead Stiles sounds cold and displays a cocky smile as he says "I see we have your attention. Good. We have a proposition for you."

It will be a cold day in hell before Chris is so captivated by a show of power that he can't spot dark rings under tired eyes or the way Derek looks ready to come to Stiles' help should he… what, faint? Whatever Stiles wants to have him think, this new force of his doesn't come without costs. And now Chris has an idea of what is coming.

"What do you want?" Chris asks again, calmer.

It seems as though this is what gets to Stiles the most as his whole body seems to deflate, his shoulders slump and he looks as though he is melting back into a teenager.

"We want you to come back," he states. But since he _is_ Stiles after all, the rambling explanation isn't too far behind. "The Argent name is the only thing keeping crazies like the other group to move in. And you know Scott and Derek would never let our people hurt innocent bystanders and you know us. And we know you. And I know you have a guy at the Sheriff department, though I still haven't figured out who, but I know you have a guy. As for the other hunters, we have a show ready for them. A show that would make you look good and ease their mind and then you will be in charge of making them go away and make sure no one else comes in town. And you and Derek can get together later with Scott and hammer out the details of an alliance. One that makes you at least show up when we save the world so that the rest of your psychotics buddies leave us alone. We aren't the bad guys here, we just try to help. You know it's true."

And it is true, their group does get up in arms whenever the supernatural endangers the people they love—and with the knowledge of Stiles' new special set of competences Chris is mentally adding a few interventions on his mental list.

"Okay," Chris says. It won't be easy, he will have to tell Bart and Juan at least where they stand, but he also knows that the reason why they came in this forest in the first place still holds true.

 _They are only kids_.

Chris wants to teach these kids the one good things hunters know. That you can't fight the war alone.

It is going to be a long lesson, Chris has absolutely no doubt he will have to walk a fine line between exasperation and protectiveness if he want this alliance to work.

"Tell me what you want us to do, I'm listening."

Maybe this road does not looks as wide and safe as Chris wants it to, but there is a light shining at its end. For the first time in a long time, Chris knows he is on the right path.


	4. Pixies and Trolls with chicken pox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles usually makes sense okay, just… not at this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far it took me 18 months to post 4 chapters… I guess I'm breaking some kind of record in regards to how slow I can write a story. But I am not dead and there are more chapters coming. Just… not very soon. Hang on people, if the rythm doesn't worsen it will just take another year and a half to finish the story ^^' I really hope it doesn't come to this and that you will get the next chapter soon.

X-x-x

Stiles dips his brush in ink and bestows a brilliant smile upon the burlap face of Dummy the scarecrow.

"The better to creep intruders with, hey Dummy," Stiles whispers.

Dummy doesn't answer, but he looks like he might. Like a whispered laugh could be heard in his vicinity and shadows might start moving for no reasons. The effect will be far more potent away from the well-lit warehouse, especially now with Erica and Allison talking with that hedge in their voice that might as well be screaming even though the volume is barely above average conversation. That and the high pitched buzzing whine that only Stiles can hear. The sound of overworked magic.

Stiles starts tidying up his corner of the warehouse and thinks, not for the first time, that his friends need to stop taking everything personally. Also Stiles needs to equip his workshop area with a chair. The spell he infused into Dummy — the pack has been having a bit of a pixie problem, Dummy should keep them away — has Stiles barely able to stand. In fact, his left leg is trembling with the strain of keeping him upright.

A sharper exclamation brings his attention back on the girls. They have escalated to playing with knives — well, in Erica's case, claws — and smiling threateningly at each other. Scott and Boyd are already up and ready to separate them if war breaks out.

Strangely, Isaac and Derek are still ignoring them and pretending to train. It makes Stiles wonder whether this happens a lot. Are they on the other side of an Erica tantrum so often that they don't care anymore?

Chris hasn't moved from his place next to the sandbag he was using to demonstrate a move. There is barely a twitch in his jaw, but Stiles is not fooled. On their self appointed mentor, twitching counts as a full eye roll. All Chris's newfound zen can't possibly make him immune against the stupidity of teenaged drama, even when it comes from his precious daughter.

Eventually, Allison and Erica give up on the power of menacing communication and just go for the punches. Scott and Boyd dive in between them and Derek joins in, having finally decided that his being the alpha now means he's got to keep Erica out of trouble. 

Stiles is just glad for the girls' timing. While everyone's eyes are on them, no one notices his legs giving out from under him. Stiles gives in to gravity and falls on his ass. On the plus side, he was practically sitting already. There won't be any new bruise to hide from Scott and Dad. 

The plan was to go help Scott — Stiles hasn't quite figured how yet — but the new plan has been adapted to Stiles' skill set and consists in just staying right here, in the corner of Argent's warehouse, sitting. Sitting is good, no one can make a fool of themselves sitting.

Once the girls are temporarily reconciled, the day goes on like any other day. Everyone improve their hunter-fu, Stiles falls asleep leaning against the wall.

What? He's a teenager it's not that uncommon to fall asleep in random places. Like english class, who wouldn't sleep through that? Or the cafeteria. Though Stiles could do without the picture of his face buried in spaghetti no widely shared on social medias.

When Stiles opens his eyes again, the place is silent and empty save for Chris and Derek who are keeping busy at the table. Chris is cleaning weapons, Derek is reading a book that looks like it might come from a dumpster.

No one says a word as Stiles stretches the kinks in his neck and back and gets to his feet like he's seventy instead of seventeen. Stiles' body feels really heavy to move about for something that looks so much like a bag of bones held together with noodles.

Stiles already feels exhausted as he stumbles to the table and onto a chair. The edge of his mind feels even more crowded than when he went to sleep. He needs a vacation so bad and Easter is in another month. Calculating how many minutes of sleep he can scrounge up if he does his math homework during Coach's economic class distracts him until he realises that silence fell outside of his head and the two adults are watching him with displeased frowns.

"Sorry, what were you saying about the pixies?"

The absence of magic takes so much space.

xxx

The pixie problem gets better, fixed by good old Dummy. So, of course, a supernatural brand of chickenpox has to hit the troll population next. Trolls and itching, not a good combination. For the good of Beacon Hills, Stiles has to leave his bed at five on several drab mornings to go over his wards in the forest.

After the third time, he can barely walk from his house to his car.

Two more weeks until Easter.

x-x-x

There's a spell in The Book to borrow energy from people, which is why Stiles is currently in Jungle.

Scott doesn't know. None of the pack does. It's how Stiles gauges how much he's messing up. Anything that can't be shared with Scott is bad, if he has to lie to Lydia about it then it's not only messed up, it's probably stupid.

The thing is, Stiles couldn't care less. His body feels hot and loose from all the dancing, his mind is a satisfying blank, fueled by the way the music throbs in his chest like a second heartbeat. Stiles is on an adrenaline high that pulled him up so far, he's floating somewhere in the stratosphere.

He is, in fact, so out of his mind, he's been flirting with a handsome guy. Handsome has brown hair gelled back like a mafiosi from the twenties and a jaw so square it would make a math teacher swoon. He's got pretty blue eyes — they have been aggressively trailing up and down Stiles's body for the last two songs — and his hands have been wandering more with every song. It makes Stiles want to throw his head back and laugh.

Eventually, Handsome smirks and glues himself to Stiles' side. It quiets the whining inside Stiles's head to a pleasant hum. At the same time, his skin feels likes it's crawling with bugs where it touches the other man.

"I'm Ben!" Handsome shouts over the music.

"Stiles!"

Ben's teeth are very white when he smiles. "Are you even legal?" he asks with a grin that says he doesn't really care about the answer. Creep.

Stiles's chest fills with laughter and the overflow spills through his lips when he opens his mouth.

"Who cares?" The words get drowned a bit, the guy frowns as he tries to catch them and Stiles decides to catch _him_ instead.

Ben lets Stiles fling an arm around his thick neck and even straightens him up when Stiles steps closer, trips on nothing and loses his balance. The magic is pleased by the added contact and Ben's shout-whisper of "You're so drunk," now feels like it's stroking the inside of Stiles' head.

Stiles hasn't consumed a single drop of alcohol the whole night, but there is a wild mess of curves painted low on his abdomen that's buzzing so hard right now Stiles is surprised no one can hear it above the music. It's warming Stiles up, keeping him overly conscious of his body and filling his mouth with the taste of ozone. He tried describing what his magic feels like to Scott the other day, now he's got it. Electricity and water. That's exactly how it feels: like being filled to the brink with liquid lightning.

So, no, Stiles isn't drunk, just so high on magic the earth looks far away.

It's a little hard to explain without a chart though. Stiles doesn't have a pen on hand. So he leans closer to Ben's ear and says: "You don't know the half of it."

That gets him another smile and big warm hands on his hips. "Do you want to feel good Stiles?"

Stiles does. He's come here for this. To feed the mark on his skin with energy and to fill his own head with cotton wool until it blocks out werewolf problems and hunter problems and all the problems. School, home, all the places in between. Stiles wants to replace the feeling of slipping out of his own live with that of vibrating out of his skin until he orgasms from it and reaches that place where it just feels like he's flying. Be one with the magic. It's going to feel so good.

The idea alone is enough for Stiles to push Handsome, Ben, toward the back of Jungle, where the toilets and back doors are.

It's darker there, probably to hide the people making out. Stiles's mind is filling with statistics and warnings, some of them memories from that time his dad talked to him about safety and sex and the evils of getting drunk at parties. But the disappointed face the sheriff would make if he knew what Stiles is doing is overshadowed by a simple fact: if Stiles has sex with this guy in any way, there will be no more twitching for at least a couple weeks. A month if Stiles takes his chances on unsafe sex and lets Ben come in him.

Stiles has to stop in the hallway a second while a wave of nausea washes over him at the idea of some stranger's body fluids inside him. It's no small feat to push those thoughts away before they kill his buzz. Instead he concentrates on what Ben is saying about his ass and what it's good for and how much he looks like he wants it. Which he does. Stiles is hard like a rock. Sparks are flying off and lighting him up from inside with every brush of Ben's clothes against his bare arms. The magic is drinking in every trickle of pleasure inside him and it's far from sated.

The backdoor of Jungle opens with a creak that vibrates through Stile' bones. The cold air outside licks down his arms and neck, covering his skin in goosebumps. It doesn't last as Ben boxes him in against the nearest wall, bringing a moan to Stiles' lips when a thigh gets pushed between his legs and brings sweet friction to his cock. They skip make out and just grind against one another for a while.

"How about you get on your knees and suck me?" Ben says eventually, grinning like the cocksure asshole he is. Stiles has an itch to give him the finger and leave, maybe kick him in the chin for good measure. The hungering magic inside him doesn't let him. It pushes with insistence at the edges of the empty place where energy should be, the reminder spurring Stiles to keep his opinion to himself.

"How about you fuck me instead?" he offers.

Ben looks down to where the jeans Stiles chose to wear tonight are clinging to his ass and legs. When he looks up he gives Stiles a pleased grin.

"Or I could do that."

Warm hands squeeze Stiles' hips and slide back to knead his ass. There's even an appreciative whistle.

"You run?" For once Ben sounds interested in the answer.

"I used to play lacrosse." Stiles doesn't mention that technically he's still on the team. 'Used to play' isn't much of a lie when it's been ages since he was allowed off the bench. Ben doesn't pick up on the bitterness there, just reiterates how appreciative he is by giving Stiles' ass another squeeze.

Just before Stiles can suggest they get on with the fucking, Ben steps back and says "Do you want a little extra?" He reaches in his pocket and his hand comes back dangling a little bag of purple powder from his fingers.

Stiles's brain is a lot slowed down and he has no idea what he's being offered, though he has a feeling it must be drugs. Drugs that doesn't look like anything from his dad's lecture, the one with illustrations from the Station's evidence locker to keep him interested and focused.

"What is it?" Stiles asks.

"It's new. Maybe you've heard of it, it's called Blue Rocket."

"Blue Rocket?" The name has a familiar weight on Stiles' tongue, makes him wonder how new this drug is and if it might have been in his dad's lecture after all. "What does it do?"

Ben smirks. "Gives life a taste of the wild side."

"Like, lowers inhibitions?"

"Like, puts you in touch with your inner beast. It makes the sex seriously more intense."

Maybe it's the way Ben says it, but "wild" anything doesn't appeal after all the werewolf shenanigans. Stiles doesn't need to add unknown chemicals to the substances already wreaking havoc in his body. He doesn't need to spend time with an idiot either.

"You know what? I think I've changed my mind."

A little magic allows Stiles to push Ben aside like he weighs nothing. It leeches energy Stiles doesn't have and makes his magic hiss like a whole nest of angry snakes, but it's worth it to see the way Ben deflates and give a disappointed pout. It doesn't last, replaced by a litany of slurs that follows Stiles to the door. He promises himself he'll talk to his drag queen friends and make sure Ben gets a reputation as an asshole and a dealer.

X-x-x

Inside Jungle once more, Stiles has lost his best chance to get laid but not the drunken fog brought on by the magic. It's time to bring in bigger guns.

It would make sense to call Danny but, even if they got along that well, it is a school night and Danny is sleeping if he is anything like the good student he appears to be. Plus it isn't Danny's fault if Stiles is suffering from magical overexertion.

His Alphaness, on the other hand...

X-x-x

"I'm two seconds away from going to bed, make it quick," Derek growls through the phone. Stiles' warped perception insists the vibration of Derek's voices passes from the metal to resonate in Stiles' hand. The feeling is new and Stiles gets a little bit distracted. Enough that he doesn't realise how little sense he makes until he realises how little… well.

"It's all kinda your fault anyway… And the pack. But Scott would be weird and Lydia doesn't like stupidity. If crazy doesn't have a smell you can lure them in and still be useful."

"That didn't make sense," Derek says, echoing Stiles' own thoughts. "Are you hurt? What's the noise? What are you doing?" 

And this, this is why so many things go wrong when Stiles plots awesome rescue plans. Everyone wants to know everything and no one thinks they might be fucking up the timing with their talking and doubting. Stiles makes an effort to order his thoughts and tackle Derek's questions with efficiency.

"Jungle. Jungle is the noise. I'm not doing anyone. I mean anything. Anything wrong. Anyway, we're wasting time, you need to come."

"Are you drunk?" From his disbelieving tone, Derek isn't getting any of the urgency Stiles tries to imbue in the words.

"No!" It's so frustrating talking with people who are so slow. "There was no alcohol, who needs alcohol?" Stiles thinks back on Creepy Ben's purple powder. "Or drugs. Drugs are bad."

He realises how it sounds at about the same moment Derek makes a really loud, really resigned sounding sigh. When he talks next, Stiles can just imagine Derek's eyebrows drawing up in a frown that promises doom. "Stiles, you didn't accept any weird substance from anyone did you?"

Christ on a stick, this whole conversation is a lost cause.

"First, I don't think the people here count drugs as weird. Second, even if they did, the shit I regularly force down my throat for you guys is more likely to make the top of that list. Derek, I need your help, get your ass here." Stiles hangs up before Derek can add to the ambient stupidity. For good measure he also turns off his phone. There.

Now, to find a good vantage point.

X-x-x

The good vantage point doesn't help. Derek sneaks behind Stiles and the next thing he knows someone is whispering "you reek of magic" right into his ear.

It wasn't part of the plan at all, neither was the memories of the two nights they spent together to rush back into his mind in full colour and double surround sound with bonus touch and smell. Stiles takes a deep breath to try and ground his heart before it beats out of his chest. He barely hears Derek take a sharp inhale of his own.

Derek's presence creates a noticeable change in the crowd around them. People give them space and more than one man stops to give them a once-over, eying Derek first, but then moving onto Stiles with the same predatory gleam. It comforts Stiles to know that his theory was right and he can benefit from Derek's sexyness by association.

"What am I doing here?" Derek says right in Stiles's ear to be heard above the noise. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm looking for one last ingredient for something." Stiles wiggles his eyebrows and hopes Derek reads the magical nature of the something. From his frown, Derek doesn't land on the right answer. Unless he really does.

"I thought," he starts, stops, gives the men around them a look like he wants nothing so much as flee far away from jungle. "I thought we had an agreement."

Stiles blinks. They have a lot of agreements. Like, they agree that Stiles doesn't finish the milk when they hold pack meetings at Derek's apartment. They agree that Scott cannot be trusted to be properly distrustful of people. They agree that desperate situations call for desperate measures, and on some of those occasions Derek will endure a night with Stiles and vice-versa.

They don't have any agreement about Stiles trying to score one-night stands in a nightclub.

Unless… does Derek think Stiles is doing life or death magic?

"That's not…" Stiles halts as the possibility of taking advantage of the situation presents itself, but he squashes the temptation down and forces the truth out. "It's not one of those kind of magic. I'm just playing."

Derek tries to school his expression into blank disinterest, but Stiles catches the lie without any problem. He's been dealing with Derek for too long to be fooled by those eyebrows. Truth be told, he was expecting disappointment. Finding it in these conditions isn't hard at all.

"What do you need," Derek asks.

"Just someone who isn't too far gone to get it up." Derek doesn't look impressed by that criteria, at all. "And I don't want to be offered drugs anymore. if you hear anyone say nice things about me it's a good starting point. Also, does crazy has a smell? You never answered that."

"Crazy doesn't have a smell. And I can't hear shit in this place."

"Too bad," Stiles mutters before he points at a random dude in the crowd. "So, what about him?"

Derek looks insulted that Stiles would ask, but he still turns around to follow Stiles's finger.

"Looks like he can't walk straight, you're not getting what you want from him."

"That guy?" Stiles points to a mousy brown guy whose face looks a little too pointy to really count as beautiful, but he has a nice smile and he looks kinder than some of the really handsome ones.

Not nice enough for Derek it seems, he grimaces and only says "You don't want him," without giving any real explanation.

The next guy is high, the one after is saying demeaning things about twinks - so Derek _can_ hear shit in this place, also Stiles has a runner's built, he is not a twink, thank you very much. The final man throws a punch to another patron and gets ejected out of the club before Derek can pass judgment.

"Too bad," Derek says in the most unhelpful way, "He looked nice."

Maybe it's because Stiles agrees that Derek's comment annoys him so much, but mainly it's because he can feel time ticking away, and with it his chances to fill the dark hole pulling at his insides.

"I don't care what he looked like," Stiles says with more venom than Derek really deserves, "I just want to find someone who isn't a serial killer."

"I admire your standards."

" _You_ can."

Stiles realises he should have kept his mouth shut after the words come out. The way Derek tenses and go all blank – real blank not "I'm trying to look bland but my eyebrows betray me" blank - is also a good indication that Stiles fucked up massively.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says. To Derek's back. Because Derek is already walking out of Jungle. Stile is after him in seconds and it's maybe a foolish thing to do because he can see Derek's nails sharpen and un-sharpen and there's a hint of red whenever he catches a glimpse of Derek's eyes but he can't just leave things at that either.

As soon as they're outside and Stiles can be heard again without shouting, he starts apologising. "I'm so sorry. God, Derek, that was way out of line. Tell me what to do to make it better, I'll grovel, I'll clean your flat, or…"

Derek whirls around and Stiles braces himself because there's no escaping being slammed against a wall this time — he deserves it. 

"You know what, Stiles?"

No bone crushing pain? Stiles opens an eye and see Derek's face is wholly human and his body language has gone all relaxed.

Stiles reaches for his magic. It screeches and hisses at him but there's no way Stiles is just standing there if Derek has gone over the edge and is about to murder him. Stiles likes Derek, but he also has Dad and Scott to think about, and none of them will get through the next year alive if Stiles isn't there to make sure they're safe — and eat healthy in the Sheriff's case. So he clenches his teeth and he calls the magic, ignoring the way it moves inside of him like icy water carrying shards of glass.

"What, Derek?"

Derek's smile hurts a little because it's the smile Derek used on deputy Vaunaghan when they tried to get Isaac out of the station and Stiles knows it's one hundred percent fake. It looks good on Derek though. Which is a little sad. Derek's eyes are also a little sad. But that's probably because Stiles just reminded him that he dated the psycho who killed his family.

"I'm in the mood for a fuck I think. Wanna come home with me?" Despite the fake smile, Derek sounds serious.

Stiles feels his magic go liquid, flowing inside him with a sudden eagerness as though it can understand what's going on. And it's really unhealthy that Derek should propose sex in answer to trauma, but it's even more unhealthy that Stiles just caves and nods, unable to decide if the fast beat of his heart is eagerness or dread.

x-x-x

Isaac is out. The flat feels empty with just Stiles and Derek inside. They never really are just the two of them anymore. Unless they're performing a spell that involves sex — which they're about to do, but the flat displays a distinct lack of ashes and pine needles for the situation to really feel familiar.

"Stiles?"

Stiles has stopped in the entrance while Derek walked in. No one bothered with the light, everything is blue shadows and silver moonlight, quiet, soft. When Derek looks back at Stiles with his eyebrows raised in question, his neck, his eyes and the round line of his cheeks are highlighted in a way that makes him look young despite his years and the stubble that he never quite let grow into a proper beard.

"You're beautiful," Stiles says, feeling like he needs to express some of what he just glimpsed even if 'beautiful' isn't what he is trying to convey. He doubts Derek would let him utters words like 'fragile' or 'vulnerable'. They're not entirely true either anyway.

Derek searches Stiles' face. Hopefully he doesn't find there anything to upset him. His body language when he backtracks toward Stile isn't angry at least, even when he keeps walking until he has Stiles backed against a wall and presses him there with his whole body.

Suddenly, Derek leans closed and they're kissing. There's no mercy, no learning curve, nothing between the moment when they have never kissed and the next, where Derek is licking inside Stiles' mouth and biting his lips. Stiles doesn't know what to do except surrender.

They clutch and pull at each other, break only long enough to pant against wet lips before Stiles licks the corner of Derek's mouth and gets his tongue sucked in, a sensation he didn't know he liked until it happens and pleasure shoots sharp in his gut. His magic is abuzz again and roaming under his skin. It feels like every sensation is doubled, echoed and blended into one fuzzy sense of being blissfully warm.

It's like being right back at the club, feeling like he'll float away if he doesn't latch onto something so he fists a hand in the strands of hair at the back of Derek's head, surprised to find it soft. Even more surprised when Derek mirror his position and his own shorn scalp gets a thorough massage, Derek's hands huge and warm where they cradle his skull.

Sensations barely stand out under the crackling of Stiles' magic, and his brain must be cross-wired because the noise registers like touch. Derek's mouth, traveling in quick pecks down Stiles's neck, is a distant sensation. Stiles rubs his cheek atop Derek's head to try and ground himself and wonder when they even stopped kissing but Derek's lips moves lower yet and then the only contact they have is Stiles's hands still tangled in Derek's black hair and Derek's mouth against Stiles' collarbone, sternum and then belly.

Suddenly, Stiles' t-shirt is rumpled up under his arms and his pants are unbuttoned and hanging on his hips. His senses are filled with the taste and smell of ozone and the sound of a thunder that could be due to lightning or rocks in a waterfall. Fingers are grazing at the skin under his belly button, the exact spot where the rune is painted, and Derek is talking. Stiles feel like he is missing something.

"What is this for?"

Stiles looks down to watch Derek trace the intricate knot on his stomach.

"Just a spell."

Derek gives him the 'really?' eye-roll and just breathes onto the design. It goes right to Stiles' cock like a good kind of squeeze and there is no hiding the way his abdomen contracts or the groan that comes out of his throat.

Derek looks at it all with a detachment Stiles doesn't have the brainpower to analyse right now. "Try again," he says.

"It's nothi- aah!" Nails scraping along the lines on his skin and those lines might as well be nerves with the way Stiles's feels the caress all the way to his cock.

The magic purrs and reaches for every scrap of pleasure it can get and then roars for more. Stiles almost doesn't hear Derek when he asks: "You went to Jungle like _that_?" It doesn't make a difference, all the 'What the fuck were you thinking?' is contained in the last word and the way it turns into a menacing growl.

"I had better control earlier." It sounds like a really obvious lie to Stiles' ears. "Please. Can we do this later. I need…" 

With the magic urging him along, it's easy to pull Derek back up. What follows can't really be called a kiss. Not with the way Stiles crushes their lips together. But what little skill he obtained in the last fifteen minutes, he puts to use blowing Derek's mind away from any and all forms of thinking.

He likes to think he manages for a minute.

Minute passed, Derek tries to push away, making the magic rebel inside Stiles. It pushes and reaches out for control while Stiles shoves it back inside with all his might. It claws and bites in retaliation, Stiles has to break the kiss to get some control over it before it acts on its own. They need to get this show on the road, fast. The magic is not going to take rejection well.

Derek must sense the struggle. One second he's moving away, the next he is pushing himself against Stiles.

"What do you need?" Derek whispers, so close his lips brushes the shell of Stiles's ear.

"I… you need to come. On me, in me… In me would be best. I think." All the awkward business of actual fucking doesn't appeal though. Not to Stiles. Derek probably likes it. Last time was… intense. Stiles remembers that, just before the end, Derek got really into it.

 _But please,_ he thinks, _don't choose fucking._

"What do you want?"

The questions leaves Stiles surprised enough that at first he doesn't understand. As soon as he processes though, the picture of Derek on his knees at Stiles' feet is the first thing through his mind and it makes him arch into Derek's arms while his insides clench around a spark of lust so intense it makes his magic purr inside of him.

Derek smiles.

It bears repeating. Derek, mister dark and tortured himself, THE sourwolf, smiles.

It's teasing and knowing, not at all fake looking. Dangerous. Derek isn't supposed to be a real human being. And Stiles…

Stiles isn't thinking about that.

"Blowjobs," he blurts. Ridicule he can handle.

"You want me on my knees?" Derek asks. Stiles analyses his tone as 90% tease.

It doesn't stops him from having to shut his eyes. The magic likes Derek's words. A lot. "I didn't say that but now that it's out there… please?"

There's no noise for a long time and then there's a thump like someone dropping to their knees. Stiles doesn't want to open his eyes, waits for the moment when Derek will go 'got you!' Urgh, if he does Stiles will have to pull another all nighter studying the bestiary, he doesn't remember what it said about body-snatching. He also doesn't have the energy for that right now…

His pants get pulled to his knees and immediately there's a hand pulling at his shaft and another squeezing his balls. Stiles can't not look. He opens his eyes just as Derek's mouth closes around his dick. He closes his eyes again when Derek starts _sucking_ and doesn't open them again.

There is tongue and drool and a little bit of teeth. There is an awful lot of slurping and moaning — Derek does most of the former but Stiles helps with the later. Mainly, there is pleasure so intense that it takes all the words away. There is also one mind boggling orgasm that leaves Stiles feeling like his knees were replaced with jelly and the rest of his body stuffed with cotton wool. He wants to notice the way Derek licks him clean and tucks him back in his pants because there's a joke there about… something. But all he can pay attention to is how sated he is, a bone-deep satisfaction that has his magic roll around inside him, rubbing itself all over and purring so loud Stiles feels he should be vibrating with it.

He can't really see when he opens his eyes and he doesn't really think when he half tumbles, half pushes Derek on the ground. He knows he needs to taste himself on Derek's lips, so he does, and then it's a little unclear how he gets Derek's jeans undone but he manages. Derek is uncut and hard, that's about the extend of Stiles perception until he has his hands on Derek's cock. His mind distantly registers 'wider' and 'soft'. 

There wasn't much to reciprocate before. A stilted handjob, given out of a sense of guilt. The weird, painful feeling of being breached, filled and used, with a side order of being jolted into nearly — but not quite — coming.

But what just happened — Derek's lips stretched around Stiles' shaft, his tongue lapping at his slit — Stiles wants to gives this back. He leans down and kisses, licks, caresses and sucks. There's touching — a lot of touching — choking — a little because only practice makes perfect. There's also humming, groaning and more slurping and moaning. There's power expending in Stiles' chest, crackling with energy and making him hard again. And then there's Derek, looking like he hurts so bad it feels good, or feels so good it hurts bad.

It feels like an out of body experience. Maybe it is. Maybe the eagerness and the want are side effects of the magic. The second orgasm that rips through Stiles's when Derek fills his mouth with come certainly is. So is the feeling of being full to bursting with energy he can't have when he is on the wrong side of a full school-day with bonus clubbing and frantic sex.

For the first time in weeks, Stiles feels back to his old-self, the one who could go on an all-night research binge, get his homework done before first bell, run suicides in practice and follow with werewolf shenanigans. Okay, he never had the energy for all of that. The werewolves probably don't have the energy for that.

Stiles pulls himself to his elbows to ask Derek and… finds him fast asleep.

Stiles indulge his inner creep watching Derek sleep for a moment. He does it with a little awe and a lot of "what now?". Derek has always been here when Stiles comes back from that other place where reality has the solidity of dreams and can be shaped by a thought and a will. Now Stiles realises how easy it would be to slip out of bed, gather his clothes and leave.

He wonders why Derek never did.

Xxx

When he wakes up, Derek stretches like he isn't naked and asks, "do you want to stay the night?" like… Like they aren't merely acquaintances with benefits and barely stand each other. Like they don't have the most awkward sex every for the worst reasons imaginable. It's really weird that Derek would even think to ask such a thing. Let alone with the casual tone and while lazily pulling up his jeans with one hand. He doesn't button them afterward, just stands there and waits for Stile's answer.

And Stiles almost says he has to get back before his dad does, but then he realises that Dad is probably at the station, either pulling a double shift or clocking in extra hours that won't ever be enough to right the mess the kanima made. Whatever Dad is doing now, he almost certainly won't be back before morning. 

Sometimes Stiles wonder if he sleeps at the station. Or maybe he is seeing someone and Stiles just didn't notice amongst all the werewolf madness. It's far fetched, but so was magic six months ago. When compared to the improbability of supernatural being, Dad needing someone in his life to counterbalance how much Stiles sucks as a family member doesn't even rate a raised eyebrow.

Well, if Dad doesn't want to go back to the house, Stiles doesn't have to either.

"Yeah, sure."

Sleeping with someone else might be the least efficient rest Stiles has ever got. Good thing he is bursting with magical energy now. On the plus side, Derek keeps the bed warm and doesn't steal the covers.


	5. Bob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is supposed to be an adult but maturity is really, really hard - as all the teenagers in his life keep demonstrating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, I'm not dead. Better news, I am starting the next chapter to this right away. Sorry for the six months wait.
> 
> This chapter is even more unbetaed than usual and I am told there are still typos in it only, I can't find them. So either I post it now with the typos or I post it in six months when I can finally read it again. I figured now was better. If you can't stand typos though you can come back in six months. By then I'll have re-read it and found them (or people can point them out if they feel like it).
> 
> Also, we are getting kinky in this chapter so reads the tags if you fear something might not be for you.
> 
> Thanks for your patience everyone, I hope you like this chapter.

Derek wakes up to the smell of sex, burnt ozone and remnants of too many sweaty bodies in an enclosed space. Under that is a warmer scent, something he has no name for but feels like standing at the kitchen window on a lazy Sunday morning, enjoying the first ray of sun while savoring a fresh cup of coffee.

Stiles.

They have...

He reaches across the bed but finds only cold sheets. The flat feels and sounds empty, and it remains so even when Derek props himself on his elbows to look. Yesterday’s clothes, minus his jeans, are on the ground, at the exact same spot where he dropped them. Aside from that, and the smell, it’s like nothing happened.

Stiles must have left early in the morning. The plan was to make sure he ate something first but…

_Better this way_ , Derek thinks. A bit of fresh air and some laundry then. If he does that before noon, Isaac won’t even suspect Stiles was here. He lays back down and buries his face in his pillow. It smells a little like Stiles.

Better this way.

Derek breathes deep and falls back asleep. He dreams of Sunday brunch with family, of living happy in a house surrounded by trees.

x-x-x

"You know, I kind of miss the train depot sometimes."

Erica speaks with a forlorn look at the beaten-up couch Derek salvaged from a garage sale two weeks prior. Maybe it's the color. She doesn't like green much. And Peter is already lounging there, smiling at her and Boyd and patting the seat next to his as an invitation. Boyd looks at Isaac, sitting on the chair he dragged from behind Derek's desk, like he's ready to fight him for possession of the piece of furniture. Isaac hunches down and show his teeth.

Derek can just feel the headache coming. "Thanks for coming, everyone. Please, take a seat, we have a lot to discuss."

"Pack meeting in session," Erica says, sitting on the arm furthest from Peter. Boyd leaves Isaac alone in favor of standing at her shoulder. "Let's get this over as soon as possible," she adds with a daring look Derek's way.

"Isn't Scott coming?" Isaac asks with the same hope in his voice as last time, the time before and all those other times.

"You can fill him in at school," Derek answers. Again. Because clearly Scott is never coming and the day Derek grows a pair and tell Isaac is the day he'll be short one beta. In the meantime, they have things to talk about.

Two hours later they've finally established a sort of patrol roster and gone over everybody's various failure in handling the last supernatural shenanigan. Several times. All that's left is the usual. Hopefully it will be quick.

Wait, supernatural shenanigan? Dammit, Derek has been spending way too much time with Stiles.

Right on cue, Peter discards the map he was looking at and turns to Derek. "Last order of the night, a little bird tells me you brought Stiles home for a night of torrid passion."

Derek doesn't let the shift take over, but it's a near thing. He can't quite keep the growl from his voice though. "Peter, we are discussing next week's full moon. Stay focused."

"We all know how to handle a full moon. Your sexual relationship with the underage son of the local law enforcement officer is infinitely more interesting."

"It’s really not," Isaac chirps in from his seat. He looks ready to clap his hands over his ears and maybe even start singing loudly to block the noise.

"I disagree," Erica says sitting up and moving in her seat so that she faces Peter for the first time that evening. "I thought the sex was spell-specific. Are they an item now?" She is trying for leering but her eyes are a little too wide, her mouth a little pinched. Since the first time, she has been at once fascinated and wary of Derek's relationship with Stiles. Derek still hasn't dared ask. Nor does he plan to anytime soon.

"If you all know what you have to do next week," he says, "then we can all go home."

Peter smirks, something that barely qualify as a smile. "Keeping secrets about your love life from your pack, Derek? That’s beneath you. Or is it?"

_Kate!_ Scream all the words Peter is not saying, his cocksure smirk and just everything about him. But why is he making that comparison now? Derek isn't keeping Stiles a secret. The one keeping this… keeping an older lover… in a dubiously consensual relationship…

_Don't go there_.

"Whatever you think you’re doing," Derek growls, "stop it."

Peter's smirk goes up a notch. "You seem suspiciously defensive. It’s only sex after all. Well, plus all the added complications."

"What is it to you?" Boyd interrupts.

His intervention is welcome but surprising. Derek turns to give him a thank you nod and spots Erica, shuddering against Boyd's side and looking more distraught than ever.

"Doesn’t your generation live and breathe on gossip?" Peter is practically pouting but Derek can tell he’s had to settle for plan B and doesn’t like it. "Here go my dreams of fitting right in." Integration, right. As if Peter would ever bother for anything less than a coup.

Peter might have settled down but Erica is still trying to fuze into Boyd's side who is glaring at Peter. Isaac has almost folded his body into a small ball. It's all wrong and once again Derek is in the middle wondering what he should do or say. Since nothing else comes, he makes a show of going over their plans one last time, keeping as close leach on his temper when all he want is to tell Peter that he's won and to just kill him and get those alpha power he wants so much.

Instead he talks about rendez-vous points and the breathing techniques Stiles explained lats week with his damn charts and his insistence and the pack doesn't need it but right now it's stuck in Derek's brain and he doesn't know what else to fill the silence with.

Everyone goes along until the end, at which point they all books it out of here as fast as they can. Derek rearrange the pillows on the couch in the order they were before Peter messed them up and carefully doesn't think about what Peter said.

He is not Kate.

xxx

"Does the words 'Blue rocket' mean anything to you?" Are the first words out of Stiles mouth after he has been pretending Derek doesn't exist for a whole week. Not 'how have you been', not 'I'm sorry I didn't answer your texts asking me if I was okay', nothing.

And instead of pointing it out, Derek takes the coward's way out and says nothing.

Blue rocket, as it turns out, is another word for wolfsbane.

"Weird," Stiles says already gathering his things to leave.

When Derek finally think to ask where Stiles heard it the only answer he gets is the door closing on his face.

xxx

Peter doesn't turn up for the full moon. Aside from a bad feeling about what it could mean, Derek spend an almost pleasant night. No one break their restraints or even show a will to. Scott joins them around midnight, builds a fire and makes smores.

It's… nice. Though Derek doesn't comment just in case he jinks it.

As they get back to the cars, Scott smile at Isaac and says "That went really well."

Derek wishes Stiles was here to moan about how Scott is actually the spazz between the two of them. Derek would back Stiles up on that.

xxx

A half eaten jogger turns up dead in the woods.

"Must be Tuesday," Stiles mutters.

_Or any other day ending in Y,_ Derek doesn't answer.

xxx

"That's not how you inspire respect," Peter says, watching Boyd and Erica go.

Derek gather the books they didn't finish reading and add them to his own pile. He doesn't say that their falling asleep every five seconds wasn't productive. He doesn't point out they have school in the morning. He tries to tune Peter out as much as possible and to get some more reading done. That is, until he catches Stiles' name.

"It's been a while after all," Peter continues with a leer, "and research is as good an excuse as any to lure Stiles into a bedroom. At his age it shouldn't take more than a few sweet words to get him in the mood for-"

The book hit the wall right where Peter's face was. Derek's scheming uncle just chuckles like he marked a point in whatever game he thinks he is playing and saunters off.

_Not Kate_. Derek repeats to himself between pages.

xxx

"Is it ever going to stop?"

Derek pats Erica on the shoulder in what he hopes is encouragement. The bloody mess of his unhealed throat doesn't allow him to answer yet. He shares the sentiment wholeheartedly though.

They carry the thing — Stiles and Lydia didn't even have a name for this one, Stiles has been referring to it as Bob — away from the stream before its blood can run turn _that_ poisonous as well. Bob has a cow shaped head but water based powers. Whatever he is, Stiles hates him. Derek thinks it's because Bob had the gall to remain undocumented until yesterday when Stiles entered "is possibly weakened by the presence of cats" under its name in the bestiary. Or, it could be the maiming and killing. With Stiles it's hard to say.

They dig the shallowest hole of their undertaker career. Chris takes one look at it, then at Boyd and Derek ready to push Bob in — where he will most probably get dug back up by coyotes before morning — and tells them to stop and go home.

"We'll take care of that," Chris says, pointing to the old guy who accompanied them on this hunt with one hand and shooing the pack away with the other.

No one dares do the polite thing and protest. In fact, it's a race to see who will say "thank you, goodbye" and leave the fastest. The pack doesn't even bicker when it comes time to split into the different cars. Everyone magically finds a seat and Derek goes through the surreal experience of forgetting he has passengers in the Camaro even though Erica is riding shotgun.

Without consultation, everyone ends up draped over various pieces of furniture in Derek's apartment, grunting whenever someone mentions going home.

"I want to spend just one night where nothing goes wrong. It doesn't even need to be peaceful or even quiet. Just, if I could not get bitten or scratched or pecked…" Isaac never finishes his sentence, just stares into space for ages, possibly asleep even though his eyes are open.

Derek tries to find the energy to care that Isaac is going to wake up hurting all over. He looks at Boyd and Erica and find them half passed out on the couch. Peter is right behind them, using the wall as support and keeping _silent_.

For goodness's sake, Scott followed the pack to Derek's flat. If anyone needs a sign that this can't keep happening, it's right there, in the defeated line of Scott's shoulders as he looks enviously at a pillow that would totally be in grasping distance if Scott just raised his arm.

Derek looks at Stiles and is happy for once when the younger man raises and eyebrow like he is asking whether Derek is thinking what he is thinking.

"I'll talk to Chris," Derek offers.

Stiles nods and rubs his face with one hand. "I'll do some research."

"You two are cute together," comes Peter's dull comment. His voice is so flat the (pique) almost sounds genuine. Nothing else follows. Derek doesn't even have the energy to get happy about it.

Xxx

Training at the Argent warehouse is a lot more soothing than Derek first expected it to be. Even when those people who aren't Chris come to show them combat, weapons or even hunting techniques.. It's often interesting and challenging. Derek enjoys seeing grudging respect when he perform a move just right, or moving faster than expected and catching whoever is teaching them by surprise. In general he's just happy to have something in his life that he is good at.

What he doesn't like is the audience whenever his pack proves how broken it is. How inadequate Derek is as an alpha. 

Like now, when Isaac jumps on Boyd’s back and getts thrown viciously to the ground. There’s a crack like dry wood breaking and, yeah, from the way Isaac is holding his arm, it’s definitively broken. This was not that kind of exercice.

"Boyd, You need to check your strength!"

The teen looks back with pinched lips and puffs out his already impressive chest in defiance. Derek sighs and straightens his shoulders, makes himself look as tall as he can as he walks slowly to the mats. But Boyd doesn’t look down. It’s probable he doesn’t know he’s challenging his alpha. He’s just a kid.

Doesn’t mean Derek won’t pin him down and make him show his throat.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Chris who is showing Allison and Lydia how to use a knife. The hunter’s face shows nothing. Scott though is projecting reproach all the way from Stiles' corner of the building. Only Stiles stays focused on something else. Derek recognizes The Book.

Derek’s teeth lengthen and the hold he takes on Boyd’s wrists is bone crushing, Derek’s body twisting Boyd’s wrists until the teen has to turn and kneel into it or see his own arm snap in two. His injonction to submit doesn't come with words, only a growl. Derek watches it happen and wants to slap himself. But it doesn't stop him from pushing Boyd down on his knees while Isaac and Erica watch in surprise and maybe a little fear.

At the first sign of surrender Derek lets go of Boyd and stomps away. He needs to cool off before he does something else he will regret.

In his mind’s eye, Peter smirks and praises his self-control.

x-x-x

Derek is adult enough to admit he is hiding. He didn't go back to his apartment, walks the woods all day long, sleep in abandoned buildings —or back in the and goes grocery shopping in random spots at times when he is sure that all the teenagers in his life are supposed to be home. If all the shops are out of Beacon Hills, it's also to make sure he won't meet Chris even by the most random of chance. At this point covering all his bases doesn't make him any more pathetic so he might as well do this avoidance routine right.

It can't last forever anyway, tomorrow is the full moon.

Derek can already feel its pull. It is a gentle call for now, almost like a friendly voice. From his makeshift bed of dead leaves and moss amongst the trees of the preserve, Derek can enjoy the companionable presence of the white face smiling down silver light on him. Tomorrow the very same sight will make him restless and hungry for life affirming violence, but for now he can just enjoy peace.

It's such a shame all the betas know of the moon is its cold call for violence.

Maybe Derek should give them some of the stories he was told as a child. Or, what is that lie Laura invented after the fire? Family members looking down on them to make sure they are okay? Laura was always soft-hearted. And strong. And totally fierce. Derek on the other hand, has always been marshmallow through and through. Soft and guileless. That is, until Kate and the rest of the world burnt the kindness and the trust right out of him, leaving him a hard piece of charred sugar and … what are marshmallows made of anyway?

Derek closes his eyes and roll to his side. In the last few days, he found out that his jacket makes for a surprisingly decent pillow. Just like the wind in the leaves and the various tiny animals moving about the forest make for unobtrusive background noise. Probably because it was the noise Derek got used to hearing coming through the window when he was a kid instead of the cars and the city screams of the last ten years.

He is abruptly brought back to reality when something larger than a mouse and definitively ten times as clumsy crashes through the underbrush a few feet away from him.

From the noise, it's not anything equipped for nocturnal life and… is bipedal and suspiciously human shaped.

"You should use your words." Stiles shouts through the clearing by way of greeting.

Loud, unexpected and completely out of context. It would be annoying coming from anyone else. From Stiles, the normalcy is welcome and, dare he say it? soothing.

Derek leans back in the dead leaves and relaxes. "Stiles, how have you not been eaten by coyotes yet?"

Stiles lifts his arms in an exuberant hello. "Is that a smile I see on your face?"

"I'm laughing at how hopeless you are at stealth. I thought an elephant was walking in these woods."

Stiles huffs. "I'm plenty stealthy. I just thought you might come investigate loud noises in the forest and help me find you sooner. But I see you are far too busy for that. Honestly, what's with the wolf den?"

"It's not a den."

"You sure about that? There looks to be a little leaves bed under there."

"Stiles-"

"Derek."

Derek rolls his eyes to the heavens, knowing Stiles' night vision, though human standard, is good enough to pick on it.

It only makes Stiles look pleased. "Oh, don't think you'll sidetrack me that easily," he says, looking around. "I am perfectly aware of why I came here and it wasn’t to banter with you."

Derek lets his eyes go a little wide in exaggerated surprise. "Really?"

Stiles picks a spot ont the emerging root of a tree to sit down. "Really. So, words. You should use them. Frankly, I expected better of your skill at stringing them in a sentence and directing them at people. Boyd has gone all moody because he doesn't know what he did wrong." Stiles waits for an answer but Derek feels childish enough on his own without explaining that his wolf felt slighted by eye contact. "Of course," Stiles continues, "being as _I_ am a master of words, I took on some of your slack and told him that challenging his alpha was a very serious offense and that he should count himself lucky you didn't break some of _his_ bones since he put so little value in Isaac's. Erica even backed me up on it and has possibly put a bane on something they might or might not do together, no, please don't tell me, I don't want to know!"

Derek closes his mouth. Stiles waits a seconds with his hand raised between them to ward off an attack of TMI, when he figures Derek isn't going to talk about it after all he slumps back against his tree and starts talking again.

"All you have to do is show up at some point and accept Boyd's apology. Tomorrow would be good."

Then it's all inane information about group psychology and how happiness impacts up to five layers of acquaintances. Derek tunes it out after the first two sentences and just watches and waits as Stiles talks himself out of words. His voice slows down as he does and his hands stop moving. His body starts to lean more and more against the tree at his back until he falls in a silent and relaxed slouch. Okay, it’s Stiles so silent and relaxed means he shifts about and hums and then wiggle to find a better position and starts muttering under his breath about groceries.

Derek doesn't ask 'what are you really here for', because Stiles probably came to tell Derek he took care of his pack and then sit around in silence. Because Stiles is…

Stiles is…

Stiles is shuddering from magic overuse and in need of an energy refill.

Derek doesn't ask anything and he definitively doesn't offer sweet words. Peter is wrong, for all that he should be a horny teenager, it takes a lot to put Stiles in the mood. But Derek has a thought, a horrible thought, that it probably wouldn't take more than a few kind words to make Stiles… something.

Derek refuses to think about it. He sits up, pulls Stiles into his wolf bed — yes, okay! it is a wolf den, Derek’ll admit to _that_ — and plasters himself against Stile’s trembling body to keep him warm while he reaches down Stiles' pant to feed the magic in quick, purposeful strokes. He makes it good, he makes it quick and he makes it about getting off. Nothing romantic or remotely misleading here. 

He sees Stiles safe home afterward and goes back to the loft. Sleeps in his bed. Waits for Isaac, Erica and Boyd to come over the next day. Ignores Peter.

Stares at his walls and hates himself a little.

Just another day ending in Y.

xxx

"Stiles looks better."

Derek gives Chris a raised eyebrow.

"You mean because he’s not asleep right now?"

They both look in the corner of the warehouse where Stiles is circling a chair slowly and with enough circumspection that Derek wonders if the piece of furniture is supposed to attack.

Stiles still looks like a raccoon with the dark circles around his eyes and he’s mumbling under his breath — unless… is he talking to the chair? Derek isn’t sure about _that_ being an improvement.

"He hasn’t walked into anything in four days. And he hasn’t fallen asleep in the warehouse since then either. Not too soon, one more day and I was dragging him to a hospital," Chris comments. "I wondered if we should tell the sheriff," Chris adds like Derek’s opinion on the matter really interests him. 

Derek has to give himself a second to analyze where the relief he feels all of a sudden is coming from. Knowing Chris has Stiles’ back, he decides. Now, that particular development is an argument that Derek will forever put in the "listen to Stiles’ plans" favor. God knows when Stiles started talking about witches, show of power and alliance with hunters Derek thought he had finally gone insane. There is a reason they kept it from Scott. To this day Derek still doesn’t know why _he_ agreed to it. 

"Stiles should be the one telling him. But it shouldn’t happen anymore, he found what the problem was and fixed it," Derek offers. Because Chris is okay. And Stiles needs all the help he can get. Plus, Derek doesn’t want Chris to go to Stiles’ dad if anything else happens. Derek doesn't know what is going on exactly between the sheriff and his son, but Stiles doesn’t speak about his home life at all. It makes Scott look worried and makes Derek feel like asking Scott what he thinks is going on. 

Just so he isn’t blindsided when things inevitably turn into a disaster.

x-x-x

Scott’s inner do-gooder seems to have decided they needed to talk. At least that’s the face Scott makes when he doesn’t want to speak but feels he ought to.

"You and Stiles," Scott begins, looking a little green on the edge.

"There is no me and Stiles." The other night was more… personal, but it was still definitely part of the deal they have going on, and bartered sex is no relationship at all.

Scott looks even more hesitant about what he feels he should say. But whatever you want to say about Scott, however much of an idiot you want to call him, you have to call him a loyal idiot.

"But you treat him good, right?"

It strikes Derek as funny that Scott would suddenly take an interest in this _now_. Though, he has to have talked to Isaac. Or heard Peter make insinuations. "Whatever you think you’re doing, I’m sure Stiles doesn’t need it. He can take care of himself."

Scott gives Derek a look like there is more to say but he takes one good look at Derek and nods once instead. Nods and leaves. 

Derek thinks he has just passed some test. What he scored exactly and what the test was for, though, he has no idea.

Xxx

"Think about it, the wyvern, the trolls, the witch, the pixies. It’s too much."

Everyone is sitting in silence around the table and the rest of the warehouse is left in darkness. This has a very noir, meeting-of-the-bad-guys feel to it. Chris is presiding at one end of their table and Stiles is standing at the other, hunched over with his palms on the wood and looking at everyone one after the other with an intensity that makes everyone not only nod in agreement but hunch their shoulders and look submissive.

Derek feels jealous.

Chris isn’t as affected, but he still nods in an _I agree but what can you do_ gesture. "What do you suggest then?"

"We could bind this land to the wolves."

Chris frowns. "You mean keep this zone werewolves only?"

"Exactly."

"Is that possible?"

There is something dangerous in Stiles smile. "There is a ritual."

From the side glances and the nervous twitches, everyone but Chris knows it’s one of _those_ rituals. It’s almost cute that they think Chris won’t pick up on their sudden tension. Only Lydia doesn’t look like she is hiding something right now, and that might well be because she truly doesn’t care if Chris knows.

Derek can’t say the same. He very much cares about whether or not Chris ever learns that Derek has been defiling an underage high-schooler. Chris has guns, wolfsbane and a daughter only a year older than Stiles.

And suddenly Stiles goes "there’s a catch this time."

And Lydia look up from her nails as though she doesn’t have a care in the world and ask, "You mean it’s not enough to force people into ritualized sex?"

The rug, the floor and the whole earth is pulled from under Derek's feet.

Stiles shrugs. "Sexual intimacy and the liberty to choose your partner is an occidental construct dating back only a century or so. If this were, say, first century England, we would have _public_ ritualized sex and it would be an honor."

Derek is a little horrified. Not at the situation, he's in too much shock for that. No, this is _not_ the first century and, social construct or not, Derek is reasonably sure Stiles was raised to believe sex is something shared by two people who really love each other. Two millennia old customs shouldn’t ever sound reasonable to him. Plus, if sleeping together for magic purpose is okay now, Derek is worried about what Stiles calls 'a catch'.

And fuck, but Chris’s eyebrows are about level with his hairline and his eyes have doubled in size. And so are everyone else’s as they gape at Stiles and Lydia like they are _insane_ which… yeah, how did Derek not suspect that before?

"So what’s new this time?" Lydia asks, ignoring the way Scott has started making not so discreet 'abort' gestures away from Chris' eyes.

She ignores him. It's entirely deliberate.

Stiles holds out The book to everyone's eyes and the thing opens right at the page marked by a post-it note like the spine is broken there from use. This particular spell is illustrated and Derek only needs to glance at the picture to realize why it might be of any interest to anyone.

It’s porn. A rough sketch of a woman and a man having very obvious intercourse in all of their weirdly disproportionate glory. The woman’s breasts look like spheres fused to her chest and the guy’s dick is just so large as to be ridiculous if you try to imagine him being real. The main point of focus though, aside from the place where the giant dick disappears into a vagina just as ridiculously enormous, is the man’s head. A wolf’s head.

Derek takes that in for a moment and considers commenting on the kinks of whatever century this was engraved in. What can he say, the imminent death must be going to his head. He doesn’t even look up from the picture to gauge whether Chris knows yet. Then he realizes what the porn picture is trying to illustrate and things get worse. Though at least Peter isn’t there to laugh at him so it’s not _The worst_.

As he thinks that, Chris' voice rise, reminding everyone who they are having this conversation with. "What do you think you are doing?"

At first Derek thinks Chris is asking him, having finally figured what Derek has been up to. But Chris’s glare is all for Stiles.

Forget the witch plan, this, now, is the moments when Stiles has finally gone off his rocker, the moment when Stiles not only came out with the sex spells, but looks at Chris like the man is acting odd before answering him like it is a perfectly reasonable question. "Keeping you in the loop. Seeing as it’s important, area magic that also concerns you."

"Important magic that requires ritualized sex?" Chris asks. And how weird is it that Derek now feels affected by the disapproving eyebrows and pinched mouth of a hunter? One he didn’t fear nor care about less than a month ago? That Allison would be looking down like a chastised little girl is expected, but Derek? And he notices, without much surprise, that all the other teenagers in the room are also giving Chris guilty side-looks. All but for Stiles and Lydia that is.

Derek has a sinking feeling they rehearsed this outing event. Or at least planned it. Like the witch incident, minus Derek pacing the room telling them that trying to manipulate hunters never ends well. Too bad this time he’s about to be proven right.

Stiles is sitting down now, crossing a leg at the ankle and watching Chris with his own disapproving eyebrow. "Yes, important magic that requires ritualized sex. Why are you making this a big deal? Do we look like we are making this to be a thing?" Chris looks ready to protest but Stiles keeps talking right over him. "Does anyone looks traumatized?" Derek would point out Stiles’ scary face as evidence for that one. If he wasn't terrified to have said face turned on him. "No we aren’t." Stiles say, pointing a finger accusingly at Chris like he is being unreasonable all of a sudden. "We aren’t because it isn’t a big deal. No one here is acting like it is a big deal and we have been treating it as a non deal for months." Chris’ eyes bulge a little and Derek hides a vince. "And now you are going to step right in on the merry bandwagon of denial and not treat it as a thing. Because if you do," what little light there was in the room starts dimming and Stiles’ eyes are suddenly glowing. The wood under his hands sprouts… roots? Twisting tendrils that wrap around Stiles’ wrists and reaches toward Chris.

Amongst all the madness and the other teenagers suddenly looking like Stiles has won their respect and fear — young, _foolish_ people, Derek has been secretly fearing Stiles since the molotov cocktail - Derek remembers all of a sudden that Lydia shifted the other lights off when Stiles gathered them to the table for his little speech. The two of them so rehearsed that.

As the prime target of the light-show, Chris looks suitably wary of the potentially crazy mage. Wary and calculating.

"And who am I not making a big deal to, Stiles?" The man asks.

All the danger bleeds out of Stiles, the vines disappear or turn back into the table or whatever and the light regains its normal intensity. Looking back to his harmless self, Stiles shrugs and says, "Derek of course, he’s the Alpha now."

Derek pinches his nose and counts to ten. "And why didn’t we explain the situation like rational people?"

Stiles beams at Derek. "Because you need to look like a reasonable, non-coercing part of this important magic sex ritual," he says gesturing between the two of them as though there might still be any doubt left in Chris’ mind of who exactly is having said sex.

Derek isn’t amused. "By all mean, just use me however you want."

Stiles nods. "It’s on the schedule." Stiles turns to Chris, hand cupped around his mouth like he is about to impart a great secret. "It’s totally for his body, too." Then Stiles looks pensive for a second and adds, "And the good of the land I guess."

So. Stiles’ plan was to make himself look like a slut and make Derek looks like a reluctant party. Derek doesn’t know if he hopes Chris will buy it or just shoot him now. He looks at Chris to gauge which is more likely to happen.

Chris looks like he will take his explanation without any side of bullshit. Now.

Derek's mouth opens, all that comes out is, "It's not as bad as it sounds."

Chris kind of gives up after that. On the plus side he starts by chasing all the people not directly involved away. The glare he directs toward Allison says she will have her own talk at some point. At least there is some justice in the world.

"Now you two." 

xxx

When Derek's parents were still alive, his dad gave him the ever dreaded sex talk.

For reasons having everything to do with how much Chris obviously doesn't want to ask what he is asking and Stiles being as crass as possible, the talk-about-sex-magic-that-shall-remain-undisclosed-to-the-general-public-that-means-all-of-you-guys — Stiles sends a general e-mail to the the pack with just that heading — is both worst and funnier.

At the end of it, Chris leaves with a look that says he is going to go bleach his brain now.

Stiles watches Chris leave with his but firmly planted in his seat, so Derek waits him out. As much as he wishes it was, it seems the conversation is not over.

The book is still on the table. Stiles pulls it toward himself, eyes flickering between the illustration and Derek's face.

Derek sighs, he is the adult after all. "I need to be shifted."

Stiles doesn't say anything for a while, just thumb the corner of the pages. Suddenly, he gives a small nod. "You need to be shifted.".

Derek looks down again at the book, still open on the table. The illustration is rather tasteless really. Crude even. "Put that thing away."

Stiles does that, and then just sits there, looking at Derek with a question in his eyes.

"What?"

"Will you do it?"

_Like there’s any choice._

Derek catches the thought and frowns at his own resignation. Damn it, now he sounds like Stiles.

It’s not that there is anything wrong about shifted sex. Not that Derek knows of anyway. If it is anything like any other moment of his life he spent shifted it's just going to be… Not about sensations so much as emotions. About letting your higher-brain take a nap while you get an unfiltered double shot of… well, not the high of the chase or the comfort of family but maybe… satisfaction, thrill, whatever.

"It’s going to be…" Derek can’t find a way to explain that doesn’t make it sound like he’ll just be a mindless beast.

"It’ll be a little more intense than usual, yeah I gathered." Despite the bland tone, Stiles fails to convey any form of detachment. His whole body just exudes nervous. Not good about-to-have-sex nervous, more like bad about-to-go-fight—akanima nervous. Then again, Stiles hasn’t really shown any appreciation for their time together so far. The only exception being last time, when his control over his magic was so thin he threw himself at Derek. Was he back to his usual self in the morning? Was that the reason he left so fast?

"Derek? will you do it?"

Maybe this time Derek can change that. It's sex, Stiles should know it's possible to enjoy it.

"Derek?"

"Sure. Let's do it."

xxx

They wait until the stars are right, or some shit like that, and meet again at the old house. Thankfully, by 'they' Derek means 'him and Stiles'.

Chris didn't want them to go there anymore but where else is there? Cheap motels? The candles are a fire hazard and someone is bound to notice the Sheriff's son coming in and out with the definitively shady older man — Stiles' words, not Derek's.

It seems Chris's answer to that was to come in and make some repairs. Though Stiles still steps around nonexistent holes in the ground like he hasn't noticed the difference. It's not like the furnitures has changed. The chair is still here, and the usual mountain of pillows and covers has found its way back on the floor. Including the damned batman pillow. Derek is having deja-vu like crazy.

The wobbly table is also there, Stiles is leaning back against it, assessing the nest he has made, probably trying to pin-point something he missed. Please let it be the godawful cinnamon candle and let it be to late to get it.

It's probable Stiles doesn't know how he looks right now. Head slightly tilted to the side, neck on offer, relaxed. Sexy in his lack of self-awareness. His intent isn't seduction, his body language and his face are conveying only deep concentration. His very lack of interest is in itself a tentation right now.

Derek has given it some thought since the conversation with Chris. He wants Stiles. Witty, acerbic Stiles with his tendency to ramble makes a great friend. And the Stiles who clung and pressed his body close, whose hands roamed and grasped, he was an ego-boost Derek sorely needed.

So Derek is going to embrace the weak and perverted part of himself and will be Stiles' friend with benefit as long as he has an excuse.

Derek concentrates on that as he breathes in the incense and lets the shift take him over.

xxx

The body under hims is a welcoming heat wrapped in soft skin. A promise of sexual relief and potent pleasure with every touch. Also, a source of comfort whose arms encircle him in a tight hold, grounding him. He buries his face against skin made pink from the blood rushing just beneath it, hurried along by the quickening heartbeat that echoes his own. The pleasure comes in waves every time he pushes inside tight muscles and he lets his groans and moans tell the other how thankful he is to be offered this bliss again and again.

The air is already filled with the scent of sex but he wants to taste it as well on what skin his mouth can reach. He tastes the salt and hunts for more. Muscles move under his lips, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as soft gasps escape into the room in rhythm with his hips.

Drunk on the smell and taste, he lets the repetitive motion of his body pull him further inside himself, until the shift isn't an effort anymore but feels like relaxing a muscle he wasn't aware he was tensing. The pleasure intensifies as the body under him tightens around his shaft. The moans no longer suffice to express this ecstasy so he reaches lower in his throat, where the sounds comes out fuller, rounder, with a touch of gravel that his human throat isn't really enough to turn into a proper growl. The human answers it with louder sounds, a single word uttered with more and more urgency.

Release is close at hand, growing hotter and sharper in his gut even though his thrusts become shorter, impeded by the very tightness that fans the fire inside of him.

There is a sourer note against his tongue but he doesn't mind it. Opens his lips against the soft skin and teases more blood to its surface with his teeth. The sharp pain of a hand pulling at his hair isn't enough to stop the orgasm that erupts through him, tightening every one of his muscle with pleasure so overwhelming, the intensity demands an outlet, builds through him and pushed out until he howls. And again when his body spams for the second time and his hips grind against the body that refuses to let him out. He feels the wave of his orgasm rolling around inside him unable to ebbe, rushing him instead to peak after peak in and endless cycle. While his body comes undone again and again though, Derek's mind finally clears.

The wrongness is what hits him first. The alien feeling of inhabiting the body of somebody — or rather something — _other_. His vision is wrong, his face feels scrunched up but Derek can't get it to relax properly, his arms reach too far, his legs are bent in angles his mind doesn't want to contemplate and his abdomen is cramping from the impossible series of orgasms. Being inside another is an unbearable sensation at a time like this, Stiles's legs locked at his back, pushing him close with the same energy invested in doing the exact opposite to his head which Stiles is pulling back with such force it burns.

The stench of sex and sweat is now layered with the sour smell of fear. Derek looks for the source through a thick red haze and falls on Stiles' wide, wide eyes. It is only when Derek sees lips form words that he registers how Stiles is calling his name with an intensity close to hysteria.

Instead of the question he wants to ask, Derek lets out a growl that sounds like the warning of an annoyed wolf. It prompts a fresh cloud of fear from Stiles who pulls at Derek's hair with even more force.

Derek forces the noises of pain that come out of his mouth into a clumsy articulated "Stiles" rather than the whimpers his distorted throat finds easier to produce. The fact that Derek can't quite decide if he should be whimpering in pleasure or pain doesn't help his pronunciation.

"Derek? Are you back yet?"

Nodding only pulls the hair in Stiles' grip so Derek forces his throat and mouth to produce words.

Stiles eventually relaxes his death-grip on Derek's scalp after a few words are let out to say that, yes, Derek is more or less back. The pain in Derek's skull recedes. The haze immediately thickens in Derek's mind as the relief bolsters the pleasure still coursing strong within him despite all the other confusing sensations. 

Stiles yelp and his body jerks against Derek's when Derek's hips move on their own. "Fuck, stop moving, please."

The orgasms are less intense, but Derek is still coming, pelvis grinding a constant circle against Stiles's ass. He can minimize the movement but can't quite stop entirely. If Stiles wasn't squeezing him so tight, Derek might well be fucking him once more. As it is, keeping his hips still is probably one of the hardest thing Derek has ever imposed on himself. Especially when Stiles deems it safe enough to stretch out his legs with a relieved groan, lowers them down and goes boneless.

Here is the thing though, no matter how Stiles move, Derek's cock stays snuggly inside, pulling at Derek rather than slipping out. Stiles doesn't move much, is quick with a grimace of pain or a surprised gasp while Derek's dick keeps pulsing and filling Stiles with come, more than a human body can produce. Leaving through Derek's hard dick to where it's buried inside Stiles' tight, tight ass. Derek hates his mind a little when he catches himself wondering how full exactly Stiles is right now. If it can be seen or…

Derek's hand presses down against Stiles's belly, mindful of the sharp claws that he can't seem to shift back into human nails. He runs his fingers along hard muscles not quite defined enough to show through the skin. Stiles response to that is sharp and immediate. As Derek's hand goes lower, following Stiles's treasure trail in a firm rub, the young man's eyes widen dramatically, pupil eating the brown at double pace while he groans and grinds up against Derek's dick, clenching around him, pulling him deeper inside and milking one last feeble orgasm out of him. Derek feels the different shape of his dick through the way muscles struggle to close around him, gets a sudden idea of the swelled knot at the base of his cock.

Great, so shifted doesn't actually cover whatever he is right now. No wonder Stiles was panicked.

Stiles give his hips a tentative wriggle.

"Oh thank God, I think it's over. Are you done?"

"Doing what?" The words aren't coming easy yet. Derek's teeth are kind of in the way as well as… well his jaw and his mouth and the rest of his face.

"Coming." Stiles sits up on his elbows and gives Derek an accusing look. "And growling and howling and scaring me out of my mind. Fuck, Derek, I really thought you were going to bite me!"

"Sorry."

Stiles lays back down. "Apology accepted. Do you know how long we're stuck together?"

"I have no idea."

Stiles starts tapping his fingers on the ground. "Yeah. that's what I thought. We should probably roll over though, no offense but you're not exactly light."

Maybe, if Derek's brain wasn't so full of endorphine right now, he would remember the weird shape of his body and the fact that he and Stiles are tied by some very sensitive places. But his brain his slow and Stiles's pained yelp comes just too late, and so, he rolls them on their side before he realise how bad an idea this is. Derek has just enough presence of mind to take hold of Stiles' hips and move him the rest of the way until Derek is on his back with Stiles straddling him.

Stiles lands with and even sharper cry and immediately grabs what he can of Derek — an arm and his should — and tighten his legs around him.

Stiles pants a few times and then he gives Derek a murderous look. "What are you doing! I didn't mean now! I didn't say turn right now!"

And Stiles sounds so raw and on edge Derek's immediate reflex is to hug him close — Stiles doesn't allow that — and make soothing noises — some kind of whining because is throat his still meanly wolf shaped — and instead of comforting Stiles Derek feels the teen start shaking in hysterical laughter. Before long, Stiles has a hand on his face wiping away tears and the other on his stomach while he sizes and gurgles profanities.

"Dude, this is the worst," Stiles heaves, bent in two over Derek who watches, fascinated, as the young man's cock grows plump and erect between his legs.

Derek has been rubbing Stiles's back all along and now he lets his hand trail lower and get a good grip on Stiles's ass.

"Ah, Derek!" Stiles's eyes are glazed over when he looks up, panting but also definitively frowning. "What are you doing?"

Derek holds his gaze and kneads his hands, pushes Stiles down to grind their hips together and watches as Stiles's lips part around a groan and his cock hardens some more and leaks a drop of pre-come.

"Wha-?" Stiles looks confused, like he can't quite believe his body's reaction. He actually looks down at his erection like it's a betrayal of some sort and his voice is almost pleading when he lets out a soft "Derek?".

Derek rubs his hands up to pull at Stiles's shoulders and bring the teen close to his chest so he can nuzzle his cheek. Stiles accepts to be moved without protest, burying his hand in Derek's hair to anchor himself.

Derek forces his lips to shape words. He pushes out "Are you okay?" and manages a mangled "Wanna stop?". Stiles buries his face in the crook of Derek's shoulder and rubs his head there. It takes Derek a moment to understand that Stiles is shaking his head no.

Derek pushes up into Stiles once more and shimmies his hips to compensate for the lack of movement while he takes Stiles' now fully erect cock in hand and plays with him, thumbs the head, follow the vein under the shaft with his finger, squeeze the root and rolls Stiles' balls in his palm. Stiles shudders and gasp against his shoulder. The hand in Derek's hair is slowly closing in a fist and the other claws at Derek's side.

It goes on until Stiles gives a soft moan and clenches around Derek's cock, come spilling hot against Derek's skin. It's not an unpleasant feeling. Neither is Stiles flopping down on top of him while he tries to catch his breath.

Derek circles an arm around Stiles' middle, the other around his shoulder and waits for their bodies to separate.

They don't say much during that time. Derek suspect Stiles of falling asleep about five seconds after his orgasm hit. He comes to when Derek finally shifts back to human. 

Feeling like himself again is a huge relief. For once, so is the feeling of his cock slipping out of Stiles, even though Stiles himself doesn't seem to share the sentiment if his grimace is anything to go by.

"Urgh, that never stops feeling gross." Stiles raises himself and immediately come starts running down his legs. "Gross, gross, gross," Stiles chants as he reaches for a rag and starts cleaning himself. Derek is reminded of a cat. Stiles certainly has the same prissy approach to anything wet.

Derek is taking care of his own clean up when he hears a soft "Curly fries?" from Stiles' side of the room. He looks up and catches Stiles with a weird look on his face. "You don't have to," Stiles mumbles "but…" Stiles looks at hims straight on and says, "I figure this was just as weird and possibly traumatizing for you as it was for me, curly fries usually make that kind of thing better."

Derek already can't remember how it felt, but a shivers still runs down his spine just thinking about what he must have looked like. "I could use curly fries." 

Stiles nods once and turns back around to put his clothes on.

The companionable silence lasts until they reach the car. The first Stiles Stiles does once he's seated is turn to Derek and say with the most evil smirk, "I sure hope Chris didn't add any cameras in there."

Stiles is evil and Derek hates him.


End file.
